


Lost At Sea

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M, M/M, RMS Titanic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 23:39:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson boards Titanic looking for a new life, free from all those terrible things he's seen and done. Sherlock Holmes boards Titanic reluctant, bound to an woman he does not want. Two souls, bathing in the stars forever, lost at sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"It's beautiful." He breathed, face pressed up against the window of the cab. Mike chuckled; his bowler hat perched precariously on his head.

"They're calling it the ship of dreams you know John." He reminded facetiously. The other man turned his head to grin boyishly before rooting his gaze back to the monstrosity looming just a few feet away. Enclosed in their pockets were tickets that read White Star Line: Titanic, their passage to a new life. New York City held all sorts of wonders and Michael Stamford had managed to fill his friend's head with the notion that perhaps some of those wonders were meant for them.

John Watson was more than ready to leave England. Buying into the 'American Dream' was all too easy; in fact it was the distraction he had been looking for. Not six months out of the army, work was scarce for a doctor and Mike promised that they would be hired right away; he claimed to have an arrangement waiting. A fresh start was what they both had needed and when the Titanic started selling passage it was an opportunity that wouldn't be passed up.

The cab stopped, the driver turning around. "Sorry lads, this is as far as I can take you." He rumbled. John looked equally sick and excited, reaching for his cane. The Afghan War had not left him unscathed, quite the contrary, a nasty shoulder wound was what had sent him home. He had spent his time back on a meager pension living above a pub.

Mike paid the driver, smiling at his friend. "Ready?" he asked.

John grinned, opening the door. "After you Stamford."

The crowds were so thick that to the pair it seemed like one endless patchwork quilt of coats. Mike huffed as he handed their trunks down to the other man. John balanced the weight awkwardly, wincing as he did so. Thoughts were racing through his head, sidetracking him much to his friend's irritation. England was his home, would he ever miss it?

Flashbacks of the last five months streamed into his head. The nightmares, the pain, the sadness, the guilt. His eyes shifted back up to Titanic, it was his saving grace.

No he would not miss England. Not one bit.

* * *

Sherlock rested his head against the back of the seat as the car as his brother peered outside. "It's rather big." He commented.

"I don't know why we had to travel in this one." The younger man stated crisply. "The Olympic seemed just as nice, honestly Mycroft extravagance isn't really something we can afford."

Mycroft Holmes scowled, his grip tightening on his umbrella. "I think you'll find, dear brother, that appearances are everything."

The driver slid the partition aside and poked his head in. "Mr. Holmes? I'm sorry sir but you'll there's no way to maneuver through the crowd. Would you like me to call a valet to escort you through?"

Mycroft sighed, waving his hand. "That's fine Henry, thank you." The driver nodded once, exiting the stalling vehicle to hail an attendant.

Sherlock in a childish gesture, refused to say any more to his brother, preferring to sulk. Curious bystanders outside were gazing at the Renault, wondering what First Class passenger might be inside. The younger Holmes didn't care; he loathed this, all of it.

America was a dirty place filled with Yankees and he wanted no part in its promised wealth and happiness. He wanted to stay here, in England, away from all the looming chaos that the aristocratic Holmes family was about to fall victim to. Their name was in danger of scandal and dishonor and so his mother had thought quickly to save it.

The Adlers were a respectable family, having established their name in the processing and refining of gemstones. More importantly, they had money. Mummy had been delighted to find that they had a daughter and within a week of this discovery Irene Adler was to become a Holmes. They were calling it the wedding of the decade. This was what Titanic was to him, a symbol of his hatred, the vessel that would be carrying him and his fiancée to America where they would be wed so his family could leech off of her wealth and status.

The door to the car opened and a young but confident white-gloved valet puffed his chest out. "Mr. and Mr. Holmes," He said respectfully. "I've come to escort you to the ship; several other officers are on their way to help with your luggage if you'll just follow me we can board you first."

Mycroft smiled, adjusting his jacket before stepping out. Sherlock followed, turning his collar up and pacifying his foul mood by glaring at passing strangers.

* * *

John limped along the best he could, trying to keep up with Mike. The man walked surprisingly fast for someone so plump. "Wait up!" the soldier called, speeding his pace up.

"You've got to move faster John!" came the reply mingled with a thousand other wisps of conversation from the throngs. "We've got to hurry to make it past the checkpoint!"

Their luggage had already been dropped off to be boarded on ahead of time and all the pair needed was to present their medical bills to prove they were without disease and submit to some simple checks. Grumbling to himself he put his head down and began to push harder through the people which seemed to be getting thicker.

Ahead he heard the sounds of someone shouting to make way, he guessed that it was for some First Class twit. He had once envied their hedonistic lifestyle, but after seeing war and knowing what others went without, he scorned it. People were shifting, and he knew that the crowd was parting. Mike was so far ahead of him that he was afraid he had lost him completely. Panic set in at the thought and he was all but falling over in his attempt to catch up. Thundering through the masses he found himself stopped quite painfully by a tall, finely dressed man.

The force at which they hit made the other man stagger, but John fell, landing on his shoulder badly. The surrounding people went quiet as the soldier looked up to see a shocked expression on the other's face.

"It would do well to watch where you're going next time." He sneered.

John blinked, struggling to his feet. "I beg your pardon?" he said heatedly, jabbing a finger at him. "But you were in  _my_  way."

The man regarded him coldly. "I don't think that's the case, as I see the sea has been parted for me and not you. I have the right of way here."

The doctor opened his mouth to say something rude when the hands of a valet closed on him. "So sorry Mr. Holmes! I assure you we did not intend this to happen!" he hastily apologized.

The so-called Mr. Holmes sniffed. "See to it that I'm not rubbing elbows with such company again." And with that he was gone, stalking into the distance. The valet looked at him sternly before following.

John stooped painfully to pick up his cane and then swore. Mike was gone and he had no idea where he needed to be. His temper had gotten a hold of him and now he was stuck in the swarm.

Mycroft was waiting for him at the boarding zone, looking over him concerned. "What happened?"

"None of your business." Sherlock snapped back, readjusting his coat. His brother looked irritated but had no time to put him in his place as an enormous foghorn sounded, alerting the passengers that it was time to move it along.

The younger Holmes didn't say anything as their tickets were punched and they were escorted on. Climbing the gangway however, he turned and looked out to see England one more time before the ship swallowed his beautiful country whole.

Mycroft tilted his chin in Sherlock's direction as they walked. "Do try and be in a good mood for dinner. The Adlers will be there need I remind you and we don't want to frighten them away with your perpetually bad attitude."

"Why don't you just marry Irene yourself." He countered.

"I know you're upset but-,"

"Oh I'm more than upset Mycroft!"

"Keep your voice down!" the older brother snarled with such uncharacteristic ferocity that Sherlock actually listened, raising his eyes brows. "Think about someone other than yourself for once. Remember our current standings and remember that we need them, you're working towards a purpose greater than yourself Sherlock." Mycroft's words were put sharp hisses and growls as they wound along the corridors in search of their room.

* * *

John squirmed as the cold metal comb would through his short bristly hair. The lice check was taking forever, Mike was standing nearby waiting for him, looking at the directory he'd been given in order to find their rooms. The officer performing the procedure went over once more and then nodded "You're clear." He stated briskly. "Now move it along."

The pair of old friends practically bolted the rest of the way to the Third Class entrance. The man there looked over their papers before motioning for them to board. "Welcome aboard Titanic mates." He said with a smile.

"Thank you!" John called over his shoulder, and he was very grateful indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

John was braced against the side of the railing, waving at the crowds assembled to wish them well. Mike was fluttering a handkerchief, shouting out victory cries. "Adios! We'll miss you all!"

"I won't!" John shouted in reply, chuckling madly. He felt as if he was eleven again, starting out on the greatest adventure of all. Anything could happen past this point and he was more than ready for it. Titanic's foghorn blew again, its deafeningly deep baritone, and the two watched the officers remove the ropes that bound it to the dock.

The sea was an endless expanse outside Southampton's harbor, John grabbed Mike and began limping quickly to the front of the ship. His friend followed and within a few minutes they reached the bow. The younger doctor threw his head back as the wind swirled over the front deck, arms outstretched. "Lookit me Mike, I'm bloody king of the world!" he said happily.

Mike chortled. "Get down from there you great Lubbock before you fall and kill yourself." He pulled on John's shirt and he fell back on his cane, stepping down. "I can't open a joint practice with just one surgeon."

"Just put my body on display, that way it won't be dishonest calling it Stamford and Watson, MDs." John replied brightly.

* * *

The room the Holmes brothers were shown to was enormous, airy, and filled with natural lighting. Their trunks were already being unpacked and Sherlock rushed over to oversee the process. His case files had all been transported in one trunk and when the staff reached that it he swooped down and took it from them. "I'm sorry, not this one." He stated, striding into his room and plunking it down on the bed and throwing it open.

Inside, stacked tightly together were over 200 different files regarding murders and other mysteries. He thumbed through each of them to see if anything had been damaged before he saw the note attached to the top of the pile. It read  _Good luck in America! –Lestrade and Scotland Yard_. Sherlock rolled his eyes, shutting the lid and sticking his head back out the door.

"Ah, I see you found your files." Mycroft said from across the room. "I don't think you'll get another opportunity to play detective again, better savor them."

The younger Holmes scowled. It was a sore spot for him, but he knew his brother was right. There would be no Scotland Yard in America, Irene belittled his work to schoolboy fantasy already, and her family frowned upon it too. Mummy had ordered him to leave all notions of solving cases behind with him. Naturally he had done the opposite and had begun exchanging letters with the New York police department a month before the journey was to be made. They had said that they would need him to be interviewed and he had accepted, Irene and Mummy be damned.

Mycroft's stupid paintings had now arrived; he was fawning over them and asking the valets what they thought. The urge to shout "No one cares!" was overwhelming but he bit his tongue and instead reached into his trouser pocket for his cigarette case.

There was a lurch from the boat and both Holmes looked up, startled. The lead valet chuckled "No need to worry gentlemen, she's just picking up speed. Titanic's a good ship and she won't be likely to sink on ya." He provided. Mycroft's eyes shifted nervously but he smiled and carried on with his art inspection.

Sherlock ashed his cigarette and crossed his legs, bored already. Irene and her family would be picked up from France later in the afternoon just before it was time for dinner. He looked forward to seeing them about as much as he looked forward to being forced to quit smoking by his mother. The sun filtered through the enormous windows and hit the chandelier, casting rainbows on the walls.

"Sir," one of the valets asked him, walking up timidly. She was small; her hair was tucked into her cap. Sherlock was intrigued, he wasn't aware that females were allowed to be in service for anything other than maids. "Sir what would you like us to do with your books?"

"Put them underneath my bed." He said, watching her retreat with the heavy trunk.

* * *

Third Class was very clean, but John supposed it wouldn't stay that way for long with so many bodies cramped into it. The walls were a standard whitewash; they radiated the light from overhead eerily. Had they been empty it would've looked like something from a horror novel, luckily they were heavily populated. It comforted the doctor that he wasn't the only one who didn't understand the insanely small paper he'd been handed to help him locate his quarters. Families from all reaches and areas were scattered about, languages being tossed about left and right, blending seamlessly into an endless wave of gibberish in John's ears.

He hobbled past a loud group of Irishmen, squinting at his directory. "Excuse me," he asked a passing man. "Could you help…" he trailed off as the man kept walking. "Great." He muttered.

Mike had gone on ahead of him and so he had found himself alone and very lost. The hallways were like a series of mazes and he really wasn't sure how to navigate them. The pattern of forgetting himself and ending up confused and misplaced had stop now, he decided as he limped on through another intersection, peering at his directory again.

If he could read this stupid sheet right he was only a few doors down from where he would be sleeping. Stepping impatiently, he knocked and then pushed open the door to see Mike tucking his medical bag under one set of bunks. "You complete tosser!" he said, walking in and smacking his friend's legs with his cane. "You left me and I think I've walked the entire length of this ship by myself!"

Stamford rubbed the backs of his knees, a hurt expression on his face. "I'm sorry but I really wanted to reserve the room. Sometimes people will lay claim to them and I didn't feel like having to wrestle anyone out of our quarters."

John opened his mouth to say something back when he heard a tentative knock on the door. Both sets of eyes shifted to see a mousy woman clutching a huge carpetbag in her hands. Her coat was patched and her hat sagged, hinting that it was really quite old.

"Oh, hello! Will you be my bunkmates?" she piped out, her smile in danger of sliding off of her face. "I'm Molly!"

Mike's jaw went slack and John cleared his throat. "I'm sorry there must be some mix-up, you can't stay here. Not with us." He explained. "It wouldn't be right, we can't let you. A young lady's virtue can't be questioned in such a-," his voice died in his throat as Molly dropped her carpetbag, revealing a swollen stomach.

She looked up at him. "Well sir, I don't think we have any concerns about my virtue do we? Now what are your names?" her tone had become serious.

"I'm Dr. Michael Stamford, and this is Dr. John Watson." Mike found his voice at last. The woman nodded, stretching her hand out to shake theirs. "Are you travelling alone?"

Molly shifted her weight, folding her hands over her pregnant belly. "Yes, I'm going to America to live with my father."

"I'm sure we can find you different living arrangements, you might feel more comfortable with women." John said quickly.

She shook her head. "I don't think I can find better arrangements, bunking with two doctors. Don't worry about me, I won't be spending much time down here save to sleep."

The two friends exchanged uneasy looks but Molly seemed to have ended the conversation and took to moving herself in, opening her luggage to pull out a pillow and a bottle of medication. She dropped the carpetbag and nudged in under the other unoccupied bunk before removing her coat and hat and then laying down on the bed, breathing deeply. "Please don't think ill of me due to my situation, I would rather we all get along and be friends through the journey." Her meek voice murmured, turning her head to look at both men.

John's standoffishness melted away at the expression on her face and he took a seat on the other bed Mike had prepped for him. "No, I don't think it would be very fair to you to lay harsh judgment when I've only known you for a few minutes." He said softly.

Molly brightened. "I thank you Dr. Watson, for that."

* * *

"Sherlock, for God's sakes smile." Mycroft ordered sharply as they watched three figures approach them up the gangway. The sun was setting, casting a red hue over everything.

"What for?" he replied grimly. The figures were now gaining distinction in the fading light and Sherlock was able to tell each from the other.

In the front was Irene, her big black fur coat bundled warmly around her shoulders. Hair pins by the dozens were probably cutting into her scalp, the tall man guessed as she looked up and smiled at Mycroft. Her eyes shifted to Sherlock and her expression seemed to dampen just a tad as she reached the deck.

As propriety called for, he took her extended hand and kissed it once before winding one hand around her waist and pressing another to her cheek. The gesture was hollow, Irene was stiff against him. "You reek of cigarettes." She said under her breath.

"You stink of superficiality." He countered pleasantly, nodding to the others who now assembled on Titanic.

Edmund Adler was a sharp man with graying hair and a no nonsense attitude, he was decidedly American in all he did be it accent or actions. He regarded Sherlock like one would an ant on the walkway before him before clapping Mycroft on the back. Caroline Adler on the other hand, seemed much warmer to the younger Holmes, extending a hand in the same manner Irene had and he kissed it.

"Hello Sherlock." She cooed. "Did you miss us?"

Sherlock felt his smile maim and twist on his face. "Of course, a day without Irene's company is a bleak one."

Mycroft's grin was almost as fake as his was. "Well now, it seems that the light has abandoned us and I do believe it is time for dinner!" he said gently.

The younger Holmes didn't listen to the mindless chatter that followed them down to the dining room like the plague. He barely paid attention to Irene, putting his hand on hers and kissing with robotic repetition as needed. And he overall held a stony appearance through the whole of the affair.

Four courses blew by and when the men stood, Sherlock followed. Mr. Adler looked surprised, then displeased, as though he was a child who had no business going where the grown-ups went. "Are you coming along then Mr. Holmes?" he rumbled, eyebrows arched impossibly.

Oh how he would've loved to investigate that bastard's murder. Sherlock instead cleared his throat and smiled as warmly as he could. "No, I'm quite tired out; the journey has taken a toll on me. I am going to return to my room, thank you for the invitation however." He said.

Mycroft and the old Adler weren't listening; they had spotted some old friend and were busy making their way to the smoking room. Irene stood, grabbing his hand; her tone was low and sultry. "Do you need any company tonight?" she asked, her cold gray eyes calculating. It occurred to Sherlock that he should accept, that it would mean less grief when they went to America. That it would confirm to the masses that he was indeed attracted to the beautiful woman before him, but he shook his head slowly, unwinding his arm from her.

"No." his distant reply reached her as he was leaving.  _I'm a liar_ , he thought dismissively to himself as he pushed open the doors letting him out onto the deck and breathed in the chilly night air. Fumbling with his pockets he pulled out a cigarette case and lit one up, inhaling gently into the blackness and walking towards the back of the ship.

He just needed peace.

* * *

John couldn't sleep.

He heard Stamford snoring away above him and Molly had yet to come back from wherever she was, and the doctor was far too antsy to drift off. The fear of nightmares kept his eyes open and with a frustrated huff he swung his legs over the side of the bed, running his fingers through his hair wearily.

Perhaps a walk around the ship before turning in would help, it couldn't hurt. Besides, who could possibly be out at this time? It had to be cold outside, he reasoned, putting his jacket on. The hallways of Third Class were quiet and bleak; the soldier suppressed a shiver before turning and negotiating slowly through the maze to find a stairwell that would take him to the top.

He just wanted peace.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock kept his head down and his coat collar up as he pushed past countless people on his way to find quiet. Bright dresses and boisterous voices bounced around him and he kept his eyes rooted to the deck as he strode past. He loathed their happiness, he hated their joy, and he most of all despised that he could begrudge them something so stupid.

Eventually, the only the sounds of his footsteps echoed along the ship's walkways. He tilted his head up and gazed at the sky. The Solar System, he didn't like that either, astronomy was a rubbish science filled with spotty speculations. He enjoyed things that held reason and purpose, but he couldn't deny the beauty in them as he looked up and watched the Milky Way twinkle.

Lighting another cigarette he stopped to inhale lazily before turning a corner and being jabbed by something sharp in the chest. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as a man stepped out of the shadows, his hands shaking but his expression dark. Third Class, by the looks of his jacket and hat, three children not yet the age of ten and a wife that he didn't like being faithful to.

"Hello," the Holmes said dully, puffing away. "Can I help you?"

He was jabbed again and Sherlock saw a rather large knife in his hand. "Gimme all yer valuables." He ordered in a throaty voice.

"Don't have any," he replied simply. "Haven't you heard? I'm broke."

More jabbing, the man wasn't amused. "Now!" he barked.

Sherlock tried to lay a hand on his wrist and twist to make him drop the knife but it seemed that this man wasn't just a common thug. The Holmes's efforts got him a harsh sock in the nose that made him cry out much louder than he'd intended. In turn, he was smacked in the temple with the hilt of the weapon and fell to the ground with a thud.

* * *

John was surprised by how chilly the air was outside. He tucked his jacket tighter around him and scrunched his shoulders up in an attempt to save his ears from the cold. The sea churned underneath him and he poked his head off the deck to watch it bash into the sides of the ship.

Unsinkable, that's how they had described Titanic in the papers, John wondered if it was true. During the war he had seen warships much mightier fall victim to the ocean. This one couldn't be made of anything different then they had been. At the thought of the war a shiver drifted down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather.

Up a ways he saw a young couple giggling as they sat on a bench, John sped his pace to pass them. Their heads were together and their words were hushed and affectionate. The soldier felt a heat rise in his cheeks at bearing witness to something so intimate, even if the other party paid him no mind as he shuffled on past.

He thought about America and whether or not he should settle down once he got there, he wasn't getting any younger but at the same time he had next to nothing. A small savings account set aside to make a down payment on a clinic to start up his practice with Stamford was all the money he possessed and he wasn't tied to any influential figures. What woman would possible marry him? There had been a girl he had fancied before he had left for the war, Mary Morstan… She had been beautiful and sweet, but when he had come back home he had found that she was happily wed to a wealthy coal tycoon and they had two children.

John didn't like to think he looked ugly, but his shoulder wound was hardly attractive. He stopped to look at himself in a window and examine his jaw line self-consciously. The worry lines that were barely forming before he was deployed were now incredibly pronounced and he looked seven years older than he really was.

His sigh of discontent was cut short when above him he heard a cry of pain followed by the sound of a body falling onto the deck. Adrenaline spiking he tried to see over the railing, frowning. "H-Hello?" he called, there was no reply. "Hello? Are you alright?" still no one had a response.

John wasn't sure if he was allowed to come up to the level where First Class frequented but his conscience wouldn't let him keep walking and so he located the closest stairwell and started limping towards the origin of the noise.

A man was slumped face down on the wood and another grubbier looking one was going through his pockets, pulling out valuables. "What are you doing?" John demanded, startling the thief, who stood and brandished his knife in warning.

"Keep movin' this don't concern ya!" growled the other man.

The soldier stepped forward, his cane gripped tightly in his hand. "I asked you what you were doing." He repeated, darker this time.

The thief hesitated but then puffed himself up and charged. John sidestepped him, pulling his cane out so that the man tripped, forcing him to release his grip on the knife or risk impaling himself when he fell. The doctor grabbed the weapon and turned to face him, but the man was already running away. "Hey!" he shouted, irately waving the knife. "Get back here!" he began to pursue him when the body moaned and shifted.

The medical training in him kicked in and he rushed to see if there were any stab wounds. "Excuse me sir, can you turn yourself so I can check to see if you're injured?" he asked the curly mop of hair and expensive coat.

More moans and the man sat up, swaying slightly, face still turned the other direction. "M'fine," he slurred, staggering onto his feet and slowly facing the other way.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stared at each other. "No, no no no. Please do not tell me I just saved  _you_  of all people." The doctor said, rubbing his forehead. "You're the bastard from the boarding area, I ran into you! You told me to watch where I was going!" anger from the previous encounter rose up.

The detective looked slightly disoriented but aware enough to look defensive. "You were in my way!" he said back, voice still a little wobbly.

John pointed the knife at him, his brow furrowed in rage. "You are the biggest tosser I've had the misfortune of knowing on this whole damn boat," he was shouting now. "And I just saved you from a mugger! Hell I should call him back and tell him to have another look-over, I see you've still got your cufflinks, maybe he could sell those in America for a pretty sum!"

Sherlock wiped his bloody nose and then flushed red in indignation. "You-,"

"Halt!" a new voice said and both men turned their heads to see a flashlight shine them in the eyes. "What's going on?" it was a First Class attendant and he stepped forward, eyes flitting from John, to the knife John was pointing at Sherlock, then to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes?"

The Watson rolled his head back and closed his eyes. "Shit." He swore just before the attendant started shouting for an officer to come and apprehend him. "It's not what you think-," he began before another member of the staff tackled him, twisting his arm around painfully to make him drop the knife.

* * *

Mycroft placed a blanket around his brother, letting the medical assistant check over his nose and the gash on the side of his head before turning his attention to John, who was now in handcuffs. Greg Adler had accompanied him from the smoking room when he had gotten the mood. "What made you think that it you could put your hands on my brother in this fashion?" the older Holmes demanded, anger evident in his voice.

"I was helping-,"

"Lies!" the attendant who had discovered them said. "I saw him holding a knife to Mr. Holmes's chest and shouting at him!"

John glared at the attendant. "No, I was shouting at him because he's an arse-,"

"That's quite enough! Officer please see to it that this man is escorted to jail when we reach America!" Mycroft thundered.

The officer nodded dutifully. John cast a panicked look to Sherlock who was now much sharper and only just beginning to pick up on what was transpiring a ways away from him. "No wait!" he called as the officer began dragging the doctor away. "This man saved me!"

The surrounding party all stopped what they were doing and stared at him. "Sir he was holding a knife to your chest." One pointed out.

Sherlock waved his hand in a flippant gesture. "Different matter entirely. I was assaulted by another man and left on the deck to be scavenged over for valuables and maybe would've been killed had it not been for-," he looked at John and frowned. "For…."

"John, John Watson, MD!" he provided from his spot next to the copper.

"Yes! The kind Doctor Watson!" the younger Holmes said, snapping his fingers and smiling.

Mycroft hesitated, looking at the officer, who shrugged. "If he says that it wasn't him then there's no crime." The man said, letting go of John and crossing his arms. The older Holmes pinned his brother with a piercing gaze but didn't seem to find an ulterior motive. Sighing he nodded to the officer who undid Watson's handcuffs.

"Well in that case the man's a hero!" Edmund Adler chose now to speak, his serious face impassive. "Good show, Doctor." he nudged one of his valets who stepped forward and pulled out a checkbook.

John looked confused but Sherlock intercepted, swooping down, still wrapped in his blanket. "Is that really all the man who saved my life will get? Twenty quid and a pat on the head?" his tone was waspish as he looked at his brother.

Mycroft chuckled. "Dear Sherly is displeased. What would you give him then brother if you're so all-knowing. Perhaps that blow to the head has enlightened you?" his mocking only made Sherlock straighten.

"I would invite such a man of outstanding character to dinner tomorrow evening." He stated crisply.

The older Holmes eyed John distastefully before pasting on a smile. "Oh yes, that sounds much better, perhaps then we can hear a heroic recount of how he rescued you." He said.

"Indeed." The Adler rumbled.

The group began to disperse and Mycroft put a hand on his brother's back. "Come along now, Irene will want to hear of what's come to pass." He murmured. Sherlock scowled, allowing himself to be led away, turning only once to look at John who was standing alone on the deck. He nodded once before walking faster and disappearing with his brother and soon to be father-in-law.

* * *

John blinked and as he stood rubbing his hands that were sore from the cold handcuffs; it occurred to him that he didn't even know that man's first name. He only knew his last name to be Holmes. He didn't know his first name and he was already scheduled to go to dinner with him and he'd saved his life… or at least his cufflinks.

His hysterical laughter followed him all the way down to Third Class.


	4. Chapter 4

Mike and Molly listened to his tale of what had happened the previous night and both were beside themselves with shock and wonder. And much to John's relief, Stamford could place a name to the mysterious Mr. Holmes, and his brother which was an added bonus.

"The Holmes are a very wealthy and influential English family, they made their money in government and Mycroft, the older one is following in his father's footsteps by taking some high position next year." He explained to John. "Sherlock is better known as a London detective, he's been in line with Scotland Yard. Solved this big Jewelry thief case… which I believe is how he met the Adlers."

John cocked his head. "Adlers?"

"Oh yes, Sherlock's engaged to the heir of a gemstone empire." Mike's eyes lit up, Molly seemed mesmerized, folding her hands over her stomach. "She's got to be worth at least one million dollars." He gushed.

Molly giggled, John's friend frowned at her. "I'm sorry, it's just… you know an awful lot about these families. I just picture you reading the gossip section of the papers like a housewife."

The thought of Mike hunched over a newspaper, eager to hear the news about what scandal has struck what household that week made John chuckle and soon both him and Molly were howling away, much to Stamford's displeasure. He stood abruptly while they were wiping their eyes. "Right then, if you two are done I'm going to go have a walk around the deck." He scowled.

John stood too, looking to Molly who shook her head. "Sorry, no, I'm not feeling up to it today. The baby's been bouncing around quite a lot and I don't think that I should be walking around."

The two men nodded understandingly, leaving her alone in the room to head up to fresh air.

* * *

Sherlock sipped his tea, looking anywhere but at Irene, who was directly in front of him. His brother and the Adlers had left them to eat together in his fiancées private quarters and the Holmes couldn't recall another time he had felt so uncomfortable. The Woman (That is what he had taken to calling her now, it seemed fitting. He had never met another female that could've thoroughly mucked up his plans better than she did. That deserved some kind of recognition, and Mycroft had severely accosted him the time he had called her She-Demon.) crossed her legs delicately and took a bite of her coffee cake, eyes flickering up to him. "You don't think that Doctor Watson will actually come to dinner tonight do you?" she asked.

"I think he will," Sherlock said, if only for the sake of disagreeing with her. "He's a very honest man and will show when invited. It'd be rude not to after all."

Irene nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose so." She tilted her head to the side and reached across the table to stroke his face, smirking as he winced when she came in contact with the cut. "We'll have to postpone the wedding if that doesn't heal. I won't have you looking like you just stumbled out of a bar fight when I walk down the aisle."

Sherlock moved away from her reach. "Then remind me to get mugged more often, perhaps we could move it back to never." He replied coldly.

His fiancée straightened, eyes going frosty. "Money is money my dear, and it's a resource your family needs. Don't forget that." Her tone was sharp. Then a smile crept back into her features. "Now, we have an appointment to go walk around the ship with your brother and a few others aboard the ship." She murmured, standing up and walking around and bending down so their faces were level. "Do try and behave yourself." She cooed, kissing his good cheek gently before slinking off to get dressed.

Sherlock fought the urge to throw his teacup at her head.

* * *

It wasn't nearly as cold as it had been last night and John was happy to be out in the sunshine. He was looking over the playing children as he strolled side by side with Mike, chatting amiably about their plans for America.

"The clinic is going to be huge," Stamford said. "State-of-the-art technology and maybe even a mortuary for pathologists."

John chuckled. "You're describing to me St. Bart's Mike. Don't forget that it's only just a clinic."

Mike waved his hand passively. "You need to think a little bigger John, I mean, we'll expand eventually!" the excitement in his eyes wasn't hard to miss.

The other doctor nodded thoughtfully. "Yes I suppose." He murmured.

They walked in silence for a while, looking over at the sea and the other people milling about before John's friend spoke again. "Are you going to go to dinner with them tonight?" burning curiosity wasn't hard to see behind the question.

Watson shrugged. "I don't really think they want me there. I saw the look that his older brother gave me, I don't belong there."

Mike snorted. "You should just show up and shock them all, what would you wear?" he said, looking at his friend.

"Probably just my formal military uniform." John replied.

Stamford looked surprised. "You brought it with you? Good God John, burn it or something."

"Of course I brought it with me!" the soldier stated, indignant. "Its respectful to wear it to events, it shows that you served."

Mike gave him a stern look. "You've been trying to forget you served for five months now." He clucked. "I don't know why you cling so tightly to something that causes you such pain."

John looked at his friend, shrugged. "I feel like it's dishonorable to all those who didn't' make it." He murmured, limping along.

"I think the fact that you insist on hurting yourself in their name is the most dishonorable thing of all." Stamford said quietly. John's shoulder started throbbing.

* * *

Sherlock stood stiffly with Irene on his arm, smiling when necessary as Mycroft introduced him to some of his friends. "Sherlock and Irene, may I introduce you to Bruce Ismay, head of White Star Line." The older Holmes said proudly.

"Charmed," the detective said, shaking his hand.

Irene's eyes looked over him, as though appraising. "Pleasure to meet you Mr. Ismay." She purred.

"I must say the same of you Miss Adler." He replied back, kissing her hand. "Sherlock you are a very lucky man indeed." The man said, winking.

"Yes, Irene simply illuminates my life." He said thickly. The group began walking along, only stopping once for Mr. Ismay to say hello to some passengers and ask them about the service.

Mycroft immediately struck up conversation about Titanic and the building of the ship, speaking animatedly on the subject; Sherlock tuned them out and instead took to reading the expression s and body language of those walking around on deck.

That's when he saw him, walking with a plump man of about forty-five, both looking rather serious as they made their rounds one level below. Sherlock stopped, jerking Irene and making her quite cross in the process.

"Sherlock what-?"

"I'll be right back, excuse my absence to Mycroft and Brad Eskcay-."

"Bruce Ismay!" she started to correct him but he was already walking the other way, his hands in his pockets. He stepped over a group of children and stumbled to the staircase, quickly descending and following the doctor and his companion.

They seemed to be having a heated debate about something; John looked rather flustered judging by the coloring on his face. Sherlock decided that now was the best time to intervene. "Doctor Watson!" he said, not meaning to sound as breathless as he did.

Both men turned and looked quite taken aback to see him there. "What are you doing here?" Watson asked, eyes narrowing. "Come to tell me to get off of your side of the deck or something?"

Sherlock let that one slide, he  _had_  been a tosser yesterday. "No, not at all, I was actually asking after that dinner invitation. Will be you be joining us tonight?"

The doctor's eyes widened and his gaze shifted to his friend. "I'll come and find you later." He said, the plump man nodded, looking back at Sherlock before waddling away down the deck alone.

John crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the tall man before him. "Alright why do you want me to come?" he asked seriously.

Sherlock blinked. "Pardon?" he asked.

"Why do you want me there with your lot at dinner? It's obvious I don't belong there nor am I welcome." The doctor said slowly as if talking to a mentally handicapped person. The detective didn't appear to like that too much but didn't say anything.

The man before him jammed his hands into his pockets further, feeling for a cigarette. "On the contrary, you saved my life doctor, everyone is eager to see the man capable of such a feat." He murmured around the cylindrical object wedged in his mouth as he plucked a lighter from his coat breastpocket.

"You don't have to call me that you know, John works just fine." The doctor said, rubbing the back of his neck as he limped along.

This stopped the taller man; he nearly choked on the smoke he was inhaling. "Er, right, John. Then I suppose you may call me Sherlock." He said.

People were beginning to stare, as it was indeed an odd sight, a First Class socialite (or, presumed socialite. Sherlock wasn't much for social events but often found himself dragged along anyways) chatting amiably with a Third Class nobody. John looked down at the deck as they stood there, wondering what else there was to say.

Sherlock nudged his cane with his foot. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked conversationally.

John's head snapped up, his expression guarded. "How did you know that?" he said lowly.

The detective smirked. "It's my job, I worked with Scotland Yard… I read people the way you might read a book."

"Yes but how did you know I was home from Afghanistan?" John asked, eyes round.

The taller man motioned for them to continue walking the way he had originally, the doctor warily complied. "I actually thought more along the lines of Iraq so I suppose I didn't deduce you correctly. It's your tan lines and the psychosomatic limp that got me. Obviously you served due to your slightly overgrown military haircut and paranoia, and there's only one place you would've been in active combat, the Middle East. So I thought I'd ask which country." He continued on conversationally. John peered at him, waiting for him to say something along the lines of "Just kidding, I heard you talking to your friend." But it never came, in fact, Sherlock just continued to stroll along happily puffing on his cigarette.

"My limp isn't psychosomatic." He muttered.

The detective raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever stopped to wonder why you limp, yet your injury is clearly in your shoulder,  _not_  your leg?" he asked. The doctor opened his mouth to reply but couldn't find anything to counter that argument and Sherlock's smirk grew. "Will you come to dinner then?" he questioned.

John looked at his unexpected companion and shrugged. "If it means so much to those First Class gits up there then I suppose…"

Sherlock smiled at him, putting his cigarette out and flicking it over the railing. "Fantastic," he said, turning around and striding off back the way they had come. The doctor watched his progress then turned, apparently unsure of what to say. "I never really had the opportunity to say thank you personally however." He called.

John waved it away. "You're already getting me dinner," he said back, cracking a good natured smile. "I'll see your lot tonight."

The Holmes opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, and then decided to simply nod and walk back off to rejoin the First Class gits. The doctor leaned heavily on his cane and breathed out loudly, wondering just what he had agreed to.


	5. Chapter 5

Irene was waiting for him when he returned to his room to change out for dinner. She sat on his bed, browsing through his case files. Sherlock scowled, moving past her to take his jacket off.

"I take it you were off fraternizing with the lower classes… on a goodwill mission perhaps?" she asked, eyes not looking up from what she was reading.

The detective started unbuttoning his shirt, turning his back. "I fail to see what concern it is to you." He replied evenly.

Her displeasure was evident in the way she slapped the file shut and dropped it in the trunk. He slipped his shirt off and dropped it on the floor, going to his wardrobe and opening it to select something a little more formal.

Irene sniffed, leaning back. "What is he even going to wear? By the looks of his coat he doesn't own anything worth more than one of your socks." She stated.

"I suspect he'll be wearing his military uniform."

She sat forward. "Oooh a soldier. But why would he be running away from England?" she tapped her fingernails on her teeth, a common habit that Sherlock would most definitely have to rid her of. "I smell scandal."

"Then your nose must be clogged." He snorted. "Now if you'll please leave seeing as I have to finish dressing."

Irene stood, stepping lightly over the trunk and looking at him with a sly smile. "I'm looking forward to meeting the man who saved you life." She said. "Heaven knows what I'd do without you." And she left, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to get rid of her scent. She was correct though, the Adlers were well aware that the Holmes were broke and needed a fresh vein of wealth, and the only reason they accepted to marry off Irene was because the rest of the world was unaware of the Holmes's fall. They still had every door open to them in London because of their name. If they were to have a part in that name than business could expand even wider, connections could be made that would further build their empire of diamonds.

* * *

"Stop fidgeting!" Molly complained, swatting him as he went stiff. "Goodness you'll be the sharpest dressed man there, I'll be damned if First Class makes this soldier look a fool." She proclaimed, whirling him to face the mirror.

John was quite surprised by how he looked. His uniform had been pressed by the pregnant woman and she had labored for the greater part of the afternoon scrubbing it clean. The medals on his chest were polished and his boots looked cleaner than when they were issued to him. The doctor felt his throat clog at the kindness the mighty little woman had shown him. He turned and embraced her ask best he could with her belly. "Thank you Molly." He said warmly into her hair.

She blushed furiously, pulling a stray hair behind her ear. "Oh it was really nothing, good to have something to do you know. The baby makes me feel a little useless sometimes, but look at you! First Class material right here." She said, admiring his medals before pecking him on the cheek. "Off you go or you'll be late! You've got to show that Mr. Sherlock Holmes that he's not the only one who can shine up."

John looked at the clock hanging in the cabin and panicked. He was indeed going to be late if he didn't get a move on. Thanking Molly once more and saying goodbye to Stamford who was reading a medical journal he grabbed his cane and began the trek up.

* * *

Sherlock was loitering by the stairwell, disappointment clouding his thoughts as the attendants began to close the doors to the dining room. John wasn't going to come, how had he ever thought he would? No, it had been against the status quo and Doctor Watson didn't seem like one to rock the boat-

"Sherlock?" a voice roused him from his thoughts and he turned, allowing his jaw to drop. Standing atop the staircase, looking immaculately groomed was John Watson. His uniform fit him well; his medals gleamed in the light as he began to step down, smiling as he did so. Sherlock felt something tug in his chest as he watched the slow descent. "I'm sorry I'm late, it was a long walk."

Sherlock shook his head, straightening his back and stretching his hand out. "I was beginning to worry you wouldn't make it." He said, voice even.

"Never, I had the reputation of all Third Classers to uphold." He joked as they entered the dining room together.

People looked up, confused. They didn't recognize the face accompanying the well-known Sherlock Holmes. John felt his face grow a bit hot as women and men turned to whisper in their seats as he passed. The table wasn't located too far away luckily, and everyone at it was very eager to meet him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Doctor John Watson." Sherlock said courteously. The soldier recognized the face of Sherlock's brother and the older man that had accompanied him last night and he nodded, grateful to see at least two familiars in a crowd of strangers.

A beautiful woman stood up, extending her hand to him. "Ah, Doctor Watson," she said, her voice like silk. "I'm so happy to see you, what a wonderful thing you did for our family, saving Sherlock."

John took her hand, shaking it awkwardly before smiling bashfully. "Well, you know it really was nothing." He murmured sheepishly. She grinned at him like a shark and turned to Sherlock.

"Sweetie, care to introduce us?"

The expression on the pale man's face suggested that he'd rather do anything than that but he cleared his throat and smiled. "Of course," he said. "John, may I introduce you to my fiancée Irene. Irene, John."

The doctor nodded. "It's now my pleasure to meet you." He said.

Mycroft looked up from his food. "Please Doctor, Sherlock, sit with us."

The men obeyed, seated next to one another.

* * *

John really couldn't say that dinner parties in First Class were all that amazing. In fact, around the second course listening to the men prattle on about stocks, jewelry, and their success made him a tad bored. Sherlock kept looking at him out of the corner of his eyes and smirking like he could read the soldier's mind and John would then abruptly look the other way, striking up conversation.

The food was too exotic for his taste, he frowned at his plate and hailed a waiter, who came over immediately. "Sir?" he asked.

"Er, yes, you don't have anything like maybe chicken and potatoes?" he asked, serious. The people around the table all erupted in roars of laughter and even the waiter cracked a smile. John was confused as to what he said that was funny but he let it go, acting like he was in on the joke to avoid looking like an idiot.

Sherlock however, motioned for the waiter to come closer and whispered something in his ear. The man nodded once and disappeared. The doctor frowned at him, raising an eyebrow, but no one else seemed to notice or care.

"Now, Irene." One of the older women in their company said. "Tell us about your wedding plans."

Irene took a delicate sip of her wine and smiled blindingly at Sherlock like he was the greatest her entire world. The detective was apparently too engrossed in his own wine glass to pay attention. "Well we want to have it in New York City. Sherlock isn't really partial to any kind of date but I've always wanted a summer wedding. May 31st might be the day." She gushed, reaching over and taking Sherlock's hand.

As if acting off of cue cards the Holmes looked up and grinned like a lovesick schoolboy, kissing Irene's hand. "Yes, lovely." He murmured. Everyone took turns oohing and ahing about how cute the couple were.

The waiter that Sherlock had talked to came back around with a plate and a cover over it, setting it in front of John. "Your requested meal sir." He said, taking the cover off to reveal rosemary chicken and a graciously buttered twice baked potato.

The doctor looked over at the detective, but he was making conversation with someone else. Instead, he looked down at the food and began eating, feeling better about knowing what exactly it was and how to eat it and with which fork.

Dessert was a quiet affair and when the plates had been cleared Sherlock motioned with his head for John to stand with the rest of the men. Mycroft smiled. "Sherlock will you and Doctor Watson be joining us tonight?"

The shorter man began speak but the younger Holmes shook his head. "No, I think I will see him down to his room to ensure makes it all the way, he was telling me how his leg was acting up earlier."

Sympathetic glances from the women were given to the doctor as Adler said something to Mycroft, who nodded before replying. "Yes, well please be careful on your way up as Doctor Watson will not be there to save you from thieves."

The dinner guests all laughed collectively and Sherlock gave his brother a glare, helping John to his feet. "Right, shall we?" he asked.

Irene's eyes were boring into the back of his head as he walked away, the Holmes could feel her quiet fury. John leaned over to him as they left the dining room and entered the grand stairway. "I didn't say anything to you about my leg." He muttered.

"I know." He returned out of the corner of his mouth. "I just wanted an excuse to not have to listen to Irene's mindless prattle tonight." John smiled against his better judgment as they walked.

They both missed Mycroft's suspicious looks as he and Edmund Adler recruited the Jewelry mogul's valet. "Follow them." he ordered, watching the two disappear up the stairs.

* * *

As John and Sherlock made their way down to Third Class loud noises could be heard. There were great whoops, cheers, and incredibly obnoxious music that didn't seem to have a specific genre. The doctor looked over to his companion, who had curiosity alight in his eyes.

"What is that?" the detective asked.

"Sounds like a party." He replied, turning down the corridor with his room and starting down it only to realize that Sherlock was going the other way. "Sherlock!" he called. The man kept walking towards the sounds of the music, leaving John no choice but to follow.

Sherlock had never seen anything like this before. A wealthy child raised on garden parties and Sunday teas, pubs were dirty places where illegal transactions were conducted or information on homicides could be pulled. He'd never really spent a day in the 'other half's' shoes so to speak.

The Third Class dining hall was smoky and crowded to the maximum, tables had been pushed aside and upon what looked like a raised platform, was a band. Glasses of ale were scattered about everywhere and the place was so… he couldn't find the word.

John's hand grabbed his arm and he turned. "You shouldn't be here." He said over the noise.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"Your family would have a heart attack." The doctor replied.

The detective pulled himself out of John's grip. "Well I've never been one for following social constructs." He stated crisply, marching boldly into the masses, leaving John no choice but to follow.

People saw him and looked puzzled, several drunken Irishwomen lunged at him, promising a memorable night, and others thought he was here to break up the party and gave him warning glares (specifically large men). John trailed along, scanning faces for someone he'd know.

At last he spotted Mike, drinking a tall glass of beer and laughing loudly at something Molly had said. She was sipping on what appeared to be water and was spotted him first, waving rapidly. The doctor tapped Sherlock and motioned for him to come with him and he obeyed, leading them to his two friends.

"Sherlock this is Molly…" he looked at her quizzically for her last name.

She stood, her cheeks flushed. "Molly Hooper!" she shouted above the din, sticking her hand out. The poor woman seemed instantly smitten with the man and he had to physically separate his hand from hers.

"Right, Molly Hooper and Doctor Mike Stamford." He motioned vaguely to his friend who was now passed out drunk in his seat.

Sherlock's face turned to take in everything in its entirety. "Alive." He stated.

"Sorry what?" the soldier said, looking up.

The detective looked at him, a boyish grin on his face. "Alive, I was looking for a word to describe this and I couldn't. Now I know it's  _alive_." And so it was.

The band started up another song and the crowd cheered. John smiled grabbing a glass of beer and pressing it into the First Classer's hand. "If you're going to be at our parties you'll have to learn to drink like us!" he laughed, swigging from the container heartily. Sherlock looked at the beverage and took and experimental sip, nearly choking. John nearly choked himself, from trying not to howl at his companion's facial expression. "Never had Third Class beer huh?" he asked loudly.

The detective shook his head, eyeing the drink with distrust. "Its tastes like torrid dishwater and cheap brandy."

"Probably is." Molly put in.

John grinned, unbuttoning his military jacket. Sherlock watched him. "What are you doing?" he asked.

The soldier winked at him, severely loosened up by the beer. "I'm going dancing, care to join me?" he asked. Before the Holmes had time to reply he was grabbed by the wrist and hauled out onto the floor of stomping feet and swaying hips.

Sherlock stiffened, watching John take the hand of the nearest person and begin some conniption fit of the foot that he would later learn was the jig. His tuxedo jacket was being yanked on and he stopped looking at John to see a little girl staring up at him with big green eyes and bright red hair. "What do you want?" he asked, harsher than intended.

The girl didn't appear to be bothered by his tone and stuck her arms out to him. "Dance!" she demanded in a thick Irish accent.

The detective shook his head, trying to pull away from her. "No, I don't dance, go find your mother and father." He stated.

Her eyes narrowed. "Dance!" it was more of an order this time.

Sherlock looked over to John who glanced up and nodded encouragingly, a beer spilling everywhere in his hand. "C'mon Sherlock! 'Ts not that hard!" he whooped. The Holmes looked back down at the girl and she smiled sweetly.

"I'll teach you." She said, taking his long spindly fingers and stepping on his extremely expensive shoes like they were worth no more than two pence. She started swaying and Sherlock, brow furrowed with all the concentration in the world, copied her.

The girl threw her head back and laughed a high pitched giggle of joy as she began to wave her arms and before the detective knew it, he was dancing around in a small circle with the small child on his shoes. He spied John a ways away, engaged in what looked like an arm wrestling contest of some short and allowed himself a small smile.

The song ended and the little girl got off of his shoes, grinning at him. "Thank you." She said, sticking out her hand. "'M name's Megan."

He took her hand and shook it once. "Sherlock Holmes."

Megan cocked her head. "Strange name." she stated before turning and disappearing into the crowd. Sherlock looked around and found John much closer than last time, sipping the bottomless glass of alcohol.

The doctor smiled, waving. "Having fun?" he asked, face was red and his was hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. The detective nodded, extending a hand.

"I received dancing lessons from a seven year old," he explained. "I feel I am ready to test my skills."

John threw his head back in a gaudy laugh before handing his beer off to a random man and swaggering into the middle of the dance floor with the Holmes. Sherlock stepped back and stuck his hands in his pockets, moving his feet in a complicated manner he had seen the child do, he guessed it River dancing, a popular Irish dance.

The soldier grinned, easily following along. The taller man frowned. "I challenge you John Watson!" he said. "The best man may win."

John tried to look serious. "Alright, deal. I accept your challenge!" he shouted unnecessarily. Sherlock's eyes wandered for something and he found it, flitting away and returning with a half empty glass of beer. Preparing his gag reflex, he swigged it all down in two gulps, impressing several Scottish men a ways away.

"Lookie here!" one of them called. "Little first class British ponce knows how teh drink!" pointing to the Holmes, causing a lot of cheering.

However Sherlock was only half listening and he was more concentrated on John. Perhaps it was the alcohol thinking but to him right now in this smoky Third Class dining room John Watson looked more beautiful than Irene Adler ever could on her best day at the fanciest dinner party to ever grace the planet. He thought that he should tell him that, but the beer was now going to his head and in between dancing all he could get out was "Beautiful John."

The doctor was furiously jigging away, slipping ever so often on the slick wood. Sherlock offered his hand and the two clasped sweaty palms, swaying their hips and flailing their legs in time with the insane music playing at impossibly fast speeds.

Their faces were twisted with the effort it took to keep pace as the music swelled and reached its climax. The detective looked up just at the same time John did and they locked eyes as the song ended. Neither one of them let go of their hands, instead, in a fit of courage, the Holmes twined their fingers together.

John smiled a shy smile, his cheeks burning red from the dance. "Hello," he puffed.

"Hello," Sherlock said, mystified, stepping closer. The doctor angled his head up to keep eye contact as the detective rested his sweaty forehead against his.

No one saw them kiss except one valet in the corner of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock woke to the feel of someone chopping his head in half with an ax. He stumbled out of bed, got dressed, and very painfully exited his room to find Mycroft reading the paper at the breakfast table. His older brother looked up and didn't smile. "Ah, good morning Sherlock." He said.

"Good morning." He said, sitting down and pouring himself a mimosa. "What time is it?" he asked.

Mycroft checked his watch. "Three past eleven."

Sherlock choked. "Why didn't anyone wake me?" he demanded.

His older brother raised an eyebrow. "We wanted you to get your rest; no doubt your little escapade below deck wore on you."

The detective closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. "Mycroft you're not my mother-,"

The elder Holmes slammed his paper down on the table and stood. "What the hell were you thinking?" he snarled, eye aflame. "You trod down to a smoky dining hall in the middle of the godforsaken night and… and  _consort_  with trash like that?"

"Doctor Watson is not trash!" Sherlock snapped back, rising to meet his brother's eyes.

"No," Mycroft backtracked. "Not trash, but he is different Sherlock. He's not one of us."

The younger brother narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Perhaps I don't want to be one of us anymore then either."

"You will not endanger our position Sherlock Holmes." The other man said lowly. "Do you want to see Mummy's fine things sold at auction? To see your clothes given away? Is that what you want?" his voice raised. "You're not a child anymore, you can't make afford to make mistakes like this!" Sherlock slumped back into his seat, his head pounding. Mycroft took a few calming breathes before returning to his paper. "You're not to talk to him again Sherlock." His brother stated with an air of finality.

The other Holmes shook his head, rebellion sparking in his heart. "You can't control me." He growled.

His brother looked over at him and put the paper down again. "Don't tell me," he said, peering at the detective's face. "Oh good God, please don't tell me you have feelings for this man!" The involuntary blush was enough to give his entire story away. Mycroft groaned, putting his head in his hands. "Sherlock you are a genius, yet you elect to act like a complete idiot."

"It wasn't something I planned-,"

"No, you never plan! You just go off and do. You don't think how this will affect your family, your future. You just trod off and don't give a damn about anyone else but yourself." The older man interrupted fiercely. "You cannot be with this man in any way, you know that. You will be ostracized, every door closed- no,  _slammed_  in your face!"

Sherlock set his lips in a fine line. "I don't care." He said.

Mycroft stood up, tucking his paper underneath his arms. "You are to be married in a month and a half to Irene Adler. It will be true now, it will be true when you get off this boat, don't try and get romantic notions, they don't suit you." And with that he swept out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone.

* * *

John woke, groggy and nursing a bad hangover. Molly was humming to herself, knitting what looked like a baby hat. She looked up and smiled. "Good morning." She grinned. "How are you?"

"Terrible." He grumbled, trying to roll over and go back to sleep. She stood up and offered him some medicine, he sniffed it suspiciously. "What's this?" he asked.

"Hangover remedy Stamford bought from the family across the way. He needs it just as bad as you." She said. "I've been playing nurse all day."

John took a sip and almost gagged, it was disgusting. "No way." He shook his head. "I'll just tough it out."

Molly shrugged. "Suit yourself, but you've got to get up and get outside, the fresh air will do you good."

The soldier opened one eye to glare at her. "Who's the doctor here?" he complained. She looked up from her knitting to smile sweetly.

"Doctors are the worst patients." She stated factually. "Now up you get."

Very slowly and excruciatingly he got himself dressed with Molly politely exiting the room. She put her coat on him and wound a scarf around his neck, explaining it was chilly. He waved off her doting and trudged down the corridor. The night previous was a little blurry but he had recalled one very fine point of the whole experience. The feel of Sherlock's lips on his, the gentle brush as they erupted in a fit of drunken giggles. Climbing the stairs he couldn't stop the blossom of warmth and feeling he felt as he ran the scene over and over in his head.

Giddy, he stepped out onto the deck to be assaulted by the loud noises and sunshine with brave face. His head might've exploded and he wouldn't have felt it.

* * *

Irene was waiting for him at teatime, dressed exquisitely and her hair pinned into delicate little curls. She stood to kiss him on the cheek before sitting down. "Mycroft told me that you were busy last night otherwise I would've come to you." She murmured.

Sherlock nodded slowly, his head still tender and the sounds of teaspoons clacking against porcelain were murdering him. "Apologies, I was reviewing evidence for a case to send to Detective Inspector Lestrade." He lied.

"There's a rumor going around that my mother heard this morning." She said, knocking all other formalities aside.

The detective raised an eyebrow, pretending to sound interested. "Oh?"

"That you are not being faithful to me." Her eyes were sharp as knives as she stripped him down.

The Holmes snorted, putting his cup of tea back in its saucer. "You invited me here just so you can ask if I am unfaithful? You need to work on how to maintain relationships."

Irene leaned forward, a sickly sweet smile on her face. "I will not be made a fool of Sherlock, if these rumors prove to be true, then I will end the engagement and the Holmes family will be in disgrace." Her voice was a mere hiss, wispy and filled with unkind promise.

"We were in disgrace the moment I was forced to marry you for your money." He replied back harshly. "I doubt a bit of scandal will do anything to hurt our chances. Might even give those gossiping old women something interesting to talk about."

His fiancée stood, looking down at him with slits. "Do not cross me Sherlock." She growled before stalking out. The tall man sat back in his chair, lolling his head back like a child. He didn't want to deal with any of this, he wanted to see John.

_John_. His head snapped up, John was somewhere on this ship, and Mycroft thought he was with Irene right now. Leaping out of his seat he exited through another way and decided to take a detour to Third Class on his way back.

* * *

John stood against the railing on the back of the ship alone. Sherlock hadn't come to find him yet and he wondered if the detective was having different thoughts on what had transpired last night. With a stab of guilt the doctor remembered that the Holmes was engaged.

Perhaps he had decided that avoiding him altogether would make it easier to forget? John's heart twisted as he thought about all the possibilities that the man would snub him. The ocean churned below him and he tried to rest his mind by focusing on the noise of the ocean.

"John." A voice sounded and he straightened, whirling around. Sherlock stood there, his jacket haphazardly thrown around his shoulders, hair billowing this way and that in the wind.

The doctor stepped forward, his eyes rooted to the detective's. "Sherlock I thought you didn't, well I mean I thought you weren't… you were upset with me." He trailed, waving his hands helplessly.

The Holmes looked angry for a moment. "Upset with you?" he scoffed. "You stupid, stupid man. Why would I be upset with  _you_?" he asked.

John was uncomfortable. "Because of last night and I didn't know if you remembered-,"

"Shut up." The other man interrupted.

The soldier stopped what he was doing to look at him. "Excuse me?" he sounded indignant.

Sherlock crossed the distance between them in three easy strides. "Stop talking, your prattle is ruining the moment." The taller man breathed, leaning into the other.

_There's a moment happening right now?_  John thought, he was so lost and confused but he closed his eyes and felt Sherlock's arms wrap around him. Lips ghosted the top of his head as they stood together in the almost setting sun.

The breathed in unison and the John rested his cheek on his companion's chest. "Sherlock." He said slowly.

"Hm?" hummed the taller man.

"Sherlock we can't do this." The doctor said, trying to untangle himself.

The detective let him go and glared at him, hurt etched on his face. "Why?" he demanded. "Why not? Because I'm engaged? Because its 'not right'? Why can't I be with the one bloody person I want to in this whole world John? Tell me, because I can get Mycroft and Irene down here to hear it as well." His tone was biting and it ripped at the soldier.

John blinked, unprepared for the onslaught. "Because it would hurt us both. We're going separate ways, two different paths." He said instead.

Sherlock tilted his chin up stubbornly. "You're letting fate pick your hand."

"There's no other way to do it." The doctor replied wearily, rubbing his head.

The detective shook his head. "You don't see it John. You don't always have to play by the rules you beautiful idiot! You don't let fate pick your hand-," his face was inches from the others, his breath tickling his face. "You just cheat."

And then they were kissing.

John had a really good argument as to why they shouldn't be kissing, as to why Sherlock should go back to his room with his brother and talk about stocks and wedding plans. How he was supposed to be with Irene, and they should be kissing (the thought made a flare of jealousy tingle his fingertips) and not them.

He had a good argument, he just forgot it.

His fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair and he tilted his head sideways to give him better access to his mouth. The detective separated their mouths and they both panted, looking at each other. The sky behind them burned red.

"You see?" the Holmes gasped, pecking him once, gently.

John gulped, nodded as he leaned his forehead against the other man's. "You just cheat." He echoed.

Sherlock smirked, his long fingers cupping the doctor's face. "Come with me." He purred, taking John's,  _his_  John's hand.

The soldier followed.


	7. Chapter 7

Sunlight streamed through a window and hit John in the face, making him squint and turn his head to avoid the harsh glares. A body shifted beside him and he focused to see a curly head of hair sprawled haphazardly on the bed. Sitting up in a panic, he ran a hand through his hair until he remembered. He recalled Sherlock leading him to his room under the cover of the night, then they had… they had…

The doctor slumped against the pillows, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock stirred again and turned over to look at the other man. "Hello," he murmured, stretching luxuriously. John felt shivers run up his skin as he heard the baritone still gravelly from sleep. "You're up early."

The soldier shrugged, gazing at the sleepy Holmes. "Military habits, always up early." He mumbled. The detective half-smiled and leaned in to trail kisses up his bedmate's neck to his lips. "Sherlock," he began, trying to clear his head. "Sherlock we-,"

"Slept together? Mmm yes, it was most delightful." The other man purred, reaching his arms around John and pulling him closer. "You seemed to enjoy it if I can remember correctly."

The doctor flushed red as Sherlock continued to kiss him fleetingly. "What about Irene?" he asked in a small voice. The kisses stopped abruptly and the detective stiffened.

"What about her?" the Holmes asked darkly.

"What do you mean 'what about her'? Don't give me that! You two are  _engaged_  Sherlock! I'm not your-your mistress!" Sherlock winced at the word choice. "This was a bad idea, a very, very bad idea" John babbled, untangling himself from his lover's arms and trying to scramble out of the bed.

Sherlock watched, shocked and maybe even a little hurt. "John," he said softly. The soldier struggled with his trousers, holding up a hand.

"I've got to leave." He replied. "You're going to have consequences enough for what we've done."

The Holmes now swung the covers back and marched to hover over the other man, his face twisted in anger and rejection. "I've never allowed someone to share my bed before." He blurted, turning purple. "I've never kisses anyone the way I kissed you. Never taken a lover, a mistress, or anything of the sort." He grabbed John's arms and shook him once. "Do you not see that I want you and that I could give a damn what others thought?"

The doctor pulled away shaking his head. "This isn't supposed to happen!" he countered, struggling to keep his voice level. "I can't stay with you! You think your lot will accept me in place of Irene? Do you really think this can work, set aside your fantasies of whatever you thought would come of this." John looked very mad now.

Sherlock's mind was whirring away, he knew he was circling the edge; a sentence could make the difference between losing John and keeping him. "I don't want to marry her." He said.

"Really? I never picked up on that." The other man retorted sarcastically, trying to button his shirt up with Sherlock pulling his hands away constantly.

"No, John!" he wouldn't admit it, but he was pleading. "John I don't want any of this, I never wanted to go to America but it's all for good. I met you!" he kept trying to hold John's hand but the doctor kept swatting it his attempts.

John looked distressed, his eyes glinting with moisture. "I-I'm supposed to open a clinic. I have plans; I can't forever live in tow, in the shadows of the great Sherlock Holmes. How would you even introduce me?" all the ways this arrangement would crash and burn was filtering through the doctor's brain.

Sherlock stepped back, sitting numbly on the chair in the corner of his room, watching John dress. "Is that it then, is that all?" he asked, looking up to meet the other's eyes.

"There's nothing for us, nowhere for us. What do you propose if you're so clever, live in your mother's mansion with me cooking and cleaning like a good housewife?" John snapped back, heaving on his boots in a few seconds before standing.

The Holmes reached out a hand, his face unreadable. "Wait," he choked as the other man turned to open the door.

"For what?" came the reply.

"Come here." Sherlock begged. Stiffly, John obeyed, coming to stand near the detective, looking down at him with a hardened heart. The taller man stood, leaning his head down to kiss him. The doctor shuddered and fought to keep all his emotions in check as he allowed his fingers to wind with the other man's. "You don't have to leave." The Holmes murmured.

John pulled away enough to look at Sherlock, and his resolve nearly broke down until he remembered all he was supposed to do and would never accomplish if he decided to stay with this man. To throw it all away for someone he met on a ship four days ago, who was a complete arse until three days ago. "I know." He replied quietly. "I'm going because we both need me to." And with that he opened the door and walked out.

* * *

Sherlock followed him, stopping in the doorway to see Mycroft reading the paper, and then look up quite surprised to see a slightly disheveled John Watson step out of his brother's room. The doctor looked to the elder Holmes and nodded. "Good morning." He said calmly before showing himself out.

Then Mycroft was shouting, but Sherlock couldn't really hear him, he was looking at the place John had been before leaving. He was trying to place this empty feeling he felt, he didn't like it at all and wished it would go away. His older brother was a curious shade of blue, his face contorted in fury, talking about sin or something. Sherlock gazed at him levelly whilst he continued on his tirade, lecturing loudly on how the entire family was now disgraced and would never be able to show their faces in public again.

The angry words slid over the detective's head like warm water, even when the older Holmes ran out of ways he could describe his disgust and slapped him. Sherlock didn't feel it. The onslaught died and withered down until it was just Mycroft again, old harmless Mycroft lying on the couch, mourning the respectable days of the Holmes's name.

"Why?" his brother asked him after a while. "Why Sherlock? Why would you do this to us?"

The detective shook his head, saying nothing. He felt like he was going to throw up, life without John had been so simple and now that he had left again it just seemed like he was choking on all the words he should've spouted out. Anything, there had to have been a right word that would've made him stay, he just hadn't found the right one.

The urge to go lay in his bedroom alone, curled into a ball hit him and that's exactly what he did.

* * *

John felt sick, but he knew that this was the right thing to do. This was better, safer, the best bet. He reached Third Class must faster than he'd ever before, and he panicked when he realized that his cane was still in Sherlock's room. However, his leg didn't seem to hurt him at all, and he decided that he had bigger things to worry about and if the detective wanted the walking stick he could have it.

Opening the door to his room he found Molly sitting on her bed. She looked up when he entered and tried to smile but it died when she saw his face. "You were with him weren't you." It wasn't a question.

John nodded, trying to keep his face from crumpling. The pregnant woman got to her feet and extended her arms. "I'm sorry." He apologized.

Molly shook her head vigorously. "Don't be sorry, come here." She said. John allowed himself to be hugged and she pretended not to notice as he cried into her shoulder.

* * *

Sherlock didn't look up when someone entered his room, he knew who it was.

"You bastard."

"Good morning Irene." He replied dully.

Then there was more shouting. It wasn't like Mycroft's shouting; his had some logic behind it. Irene's shrieks were more hysteric, like a cat dying via firing squad. Sherlock buried his face in his pillow and curled tighter.  _Go away go away go away…_  Did no one realize that John was gone and wasn't going to come back? How was everyone okay with this?

"Shut up." He muttered.

The yelling stopped. "What?" Irene's tone was deadly.

"I said shut up." Sherlock said, choosing now to turn his head and glare at her with a ferocity he'd never managed to muster until now. "Shut your mouth because almost everything you say is unappealing to me and I can't recall ever despising more than now." He snarled before curling back into a ball and closing his eyes.

The door slammed so hard the knob broke. However he heard the distinct sounds of "We're finished!" echoing within the walls. The detective sighed; at least there was some good news.

"Where's Mike?" John asked, sipping the tea that Molly had brought him in the dining hall. His eyes were red rimmed but the kind little woman had rubbed his back like he was a boy until the tears had stopped. Being out in public helped the doctor, he couldn't break down when people where watching.

Molly rubbed her stomach. "There was an emergency and he offered to help." She said.

The soldier set his cup down, face serious. "What kind of emergency?"

The woman waved her hand flippantly. "Nothing to worry you about, someone needed stitches. I bet now he's drinking up a storm with them. He didn't notice you didn't come back last night, I told him that you had gone to bed late and gotten up early." She added hastily.

John looked relieved. "Thank you Molly." He said. "Really. Thank you."

She blushed. "It's no problem at all, you're my friend and that's what friends do." She patted him on the hand gently.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before John looked back up from his tea. "You never told me who the father was." He said suddenly.

Molly looked a little startled at the question but sighed, placing her hands over her stomach. "He was a wicked man, he's in prison right now." John raised his eyebrows, surprised.

"Prison," he echoed. "Goodness that's-,"

"'M not a bad person John, I just made a decision without really thinking and now I have to pay the price." She interrupted. "Everyone does it, but mine will have a bigger tax on my life. In a way I'm glad of it, that out of a person so cruel something so innocent can come."

John nodded. "What was the man's name?"

"Moriarty," Molly said, her voice barely a whisper. "James Moriarty."

The doctor clasped her hands in his and looked her in the eyes. "Molly Hooper I believe that you are going to be a magnificent mother." He stated, face serious. "And that you will do great in America."

Her cheeks pinked slightly as she slid her fingers out of his grasp and straightened. "Why aren't you with him right now?" she asked.

It was John's turn to be caught off guard by the question. "We, me and him, we can't-,"

"Did he say that? Did he cast you out?" Molly pressed.

The doctor shook his head. "No, he wanted me to stay. But I just can't Molly, he's engaged to a woman and he's getting married…" he trailed helplessly.

She peered at him. "It causes you pain to be away from him." She observed sagely.

He nodded slowly. "But it's impossible, I have a future planned out. A life as doctor in New York, helping the sick."

Molly gazed at him, pity in her eyes. "Before you help the sick you should consider tending to yourself."

* * *

Sherlock had managed to lose the fiscal security of his family, the man he might love, and almost all of his self-respect in the short span of twelve hours. A new record.

He lit another cigarette and stared at his ceiling, Mycroft was out trying to urge Irene to reconsider and not tell her family of his shame. It occurred to Sherlock that his brother really worked hard to keep the detective's mess-ups from turning into public knowledge. He had always been there to clean up, through the cocaine phase, to the messy incident concerning that serial killer out for his head.

Sherlock supposed that warranted a more expensive Christmas gift this year. The sun was setting and he tucked his head back into his little palace of pillows and closed his eyes. Perhaps things would be better tomorrow. He doubted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little did Sherlock know there wouldn't be a tomorrow for Titanic!!


	8. Chapter 8

A loud groaning woke John shortly before he pitched out of his bed and smacking his head against the ground. Molly was white-faced, clutching onto the bed to keep from meeting the same fate. Mike snorted before jerking awake.

People were out in the hallway trying to hail an attendant and ask what exactly was going on. A staff member poked their head in. "Hello, sorry about that, we seemed to have hit an ice patch. Not to worry in the least about it." The man said pleasantly, looking at Molly. "Are you alright ma'am?" he asked.

Mike and John turned to see their friend, her face paling even more as she clutched her stomach. "I-I think I'm in labor." She said, looking up with wide eyes.

* * *

Sherlock felt his face smack against the wall and he flailed, trying to untangle himself from the blankets. Mycroft was already out of his room and in the corridor when he managed to stagger out. "What's going on?" he demanded.

His brother turned. "I'm not quite sure- oh! Excuse me! Attendance needed!"

The valet beelined right to him. "Sir keep calm, we're informed that it was only an ice patch and nothing to be concerned about." The man explained.

Sherlock came up behind Mycroft and looked at the white-gloved waiter, eyes narrowing. "You're lying." He stated. "I know a liar when I see one and you… well you're not even a good liar."

Mycroft looked testy, walking across the room to get his jacket. "Enough of this nonsense I'm going up to speak to Mr. Andrews and Mr. Ismay." The older Holmes said, looking at Sherlock. "Stay here until I get back."

* * *

Molly dug her fingers into John's arm and he winced. "This can't be happening. I'm not due until I get to America!" she panicked, babbling away at Stamford and John to attempt to soothe herself.

The two doctors had set her up on the floor and her cries were bringing worried onlookers. "Molly I know this is scary and difficult right now but you need to calm down." The soldier told her, she shook her head rapidly.

"No, you don't understand. I can't be in labor right now, this isn't possible." She stated, clenching her hands into fists. "I'm not due yet."

Stamford ran a hand through his hair, consulting his medical bag. "Babies don't always follow along with the schedule." He replied. The ship lurched, sliding the pregnant woman and making her cry out once more in surprise.

John looked up to see the lights flicker once, casting a worried glance out into the hallway. "Something must be wrong down in engineering or something." He said to another man whose head was poking out of his room.

"I hope so, my wife's having a panic attack." He chortled good-naturedly. "How's Molly?" he asked.

The doctor didn't know that Molly fraternized with their neighbors, so he was taken aback. "She's er, well… labor must not be pleasant." He smiled tightly. He glanced back into the room and saw Mike checking her. "How is she?"

Stamford shook his head, standing and turning to his friend. "She's barely dilated; we could be looking at a ten hour labor."

Molly's eyes squeezed shut at that bit of news. "No no no no…." she chanted to herself, sweat accumulating on her brow. John cast her sympathetic look as the floor beneath them shuddered again.

* * *

The door opened again and Sherlock's head snapped up to see Mycroft rush in. "What's going on?" he demanded as his older brother strode into his room and began searching his wardrobe for something.

"Sherlock go get your life vest and meet me on the top deck near the lifeboats." The other Holmes ordered.

The detective leaned against the doorway, watching Mycroft struggling to fit his life jacket over his coat. "Why?" he mused. The look his brother gave him suggested this wasn't a safety drill.

"Titanic has hit an iceberg."

"They said it was an ice patch-,"

"I know what they said!" snapped the other man harshly. "I've just been up to speak with Mr. Andrews, the builder of the ship. A hole has been torn in her hull, she's taking in water." Mycroft's hands were shaking.

The younger Holmes felt dread slip down his spine, smooth as quicksilver. "That's not possible, the ship can't sink. They said it was unsinkable!" he exclaimed.

His brother managed a mangled smile. "So they did," he murmured. "They're boarding First Class passengers into the lifeboats right now, fetch your vest and come quickly." The notion of a sinking unsinkable ship took a while to set in as Sherlock did as he was told, slowly with numb fingers fastening the little straps, Mycroft was waiting by the door for him.

Confused passengers were wandering the halls, trying to get some sort of explanation and the staff were instructing everyone to put on a life vest. "Safety drills" they called them, the detective felt bile rise in his throat.

* * *

"Life vests!" loud shouts rang out in the corridors, attendants were knocking on the doors. "Please locate and put on your life vests! We are running a safety drill, full participation necessary!"

John looked up from Molly's side and shot a puzzled glance at Mike, who shrugged before going back to checking the baby's heart rate. "Molly are your contractions better or worse?" he asked her.

She looked exhausted, but relatively calmer. "I-I don't feel them as badly." She replied, leaning her head against John's knee. There was a knock at the door and a wary valet stuck his head in, paying little to no mind to the pregnant woman on the floor.

"Sirs and madam," he began crisply. "Please put on your life vests."

Under the prying stranger's watchful eye, John stood to retrieve the ugly white vests and handed one to Stamford before slipping one over his own head. He gave the attendant a sour look. "Happy now? We've got a woman in labor here, would you mind?"

The valet looked a little horrified at that remark but left them to it. There seemed to be no time to help a pregnant woman, but John supposed there was nowhere else to put her. Titanic didn't have medical bays for this sort of thing.

* * *

Sherlock shivered against the freezing night air. A small amount of people were milling about on the deck, each seeming only mildly inconvenienced by what was taking place right now. Mycroft's eyes were shifting around, looking for something before dragging his younger brother by the sleeve towards the Adlers.

Irene was bundled up in her furs and she grimaced at the detective (though it seemed like she was trying to smile). "Good night to you gentlemen." She said. "How are you both?"

The younger Holmes was confused by the friendly disposition until he caught Mycroft's eyes. Ah, it seemed that the Adler had learned to forgive and forget and her family remained none the wiser. He realized that Irene was still waiting for a reply. "Cold." He stated simply.

Caroline Adler giggled at his remark. "Goodness I hope they separate the lifeboats according to class, I don't want to be in contact with undesirable company." She said to her husband who nodded solemnly.

"Woman and children!" An attendant manning the first lifeboat available to be pulled down said. "Woman and children first please!"

Mycroft looked antsy. "When will they be boarding men?" Sherlock shrugged. Irene was talking to her parents. More people were beginning to pile onto the deck, but they too didn't seem at all concerned by the fact that the ship was going down. A thought struck the detective that chilled him more than the weather ever could.

"Mycroft, who knows that the ship is sinking?" he asked his brother in a mere whisper.

The older Holmes looked to him, frowning. "No one but those who attended the meeting, why?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, anxiety coiling in the pit of his stomach. "How long?"

"Hm?" his brother asked, concentrating on the lifeboats.

"I said how long?" the detective urged.

Mycroft turned to meet his eyes. "Only a few hours, that's why I told you to hurry; there aren't enough lifeboats for everyone. The captain is sending out SOS messages but they might not be intercepted in time. The Adlers and you are my top priority right now, I've managed to gloss over your little incident and everything is…" his voice was drowned out by the sound of fireworks and everyone's face looked skywards to see a signal flare.

This was real. This ship was sinking, and more than half of the people on it were to die. Sherlock turned around and started marching.

"Sherlock? Sherlock where are you going?" Mycroft shouted. He didn't listen, adrenaline was roaring in his ears as he broke into a run for the stairwell. This ship was sinking, half of the people on it were to die, he'd be damned if one of them was John.

A hand closed like a vice on his sleeve and he turned to see Irene glaring at him with flint eyes. "Sherlock come back and wait with us." She said, it wasn't a suggestion. He tried to pull away but she held tight.

"I've got to go." He said firmly.

"Where? To him?" she hissed. "You are my fiancé and I am telling you to come back and then you will get on a lifeboat."

Sherlock wrenched his hand away from her so hard he ripped his jacket a bit. "Forget about me being your anything!" he snarled, getting in her face. She shrunk back but kept her chin tilted upwards as the second flare went off, illuminating both of their faces. "When this ship goes down I will be with him, not you." And then he was gone, stalking down to the stairwell.

"You are an idiot Sherlock Holmes!" she screeched after him. She stormed back to the group and motioned for her father's personal attendant.

"Ma'am?" he asked.

The red had faded from the sky but not from her vision. "Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes don't make in onto a lifeboat." She stated coldly. The attendant nodded once before taking off in the direction Sherlock had disappeared, she rejoined the huddle and comforted a distraught Mycroft. "Don't worry dear, I'm sure he's only forgotten something in his room." She murmured to him.

* * *

Molly's contractions were spaced evenly now and didn't seem to be causing much trouble, John was monitoring her while Stamford went to the dining hall to find some kind of warm substance to drink. That's when he saw the water.

It was trickling down the hallway; he saw it from the open door. It dribbled into the room and then more and more of it came. Molly looked at him, confused. "John what's happening?" she asked.

"I don't know; see if you can move yourself to the bed, I'll be right back." He replied uneasily as he stood up and looked out into the corridor. Water was pumping steadily out from both left and right on the end of the hallway, moving rapidly up the whitewashed walls. It had to be at least three feet deep on the other end.

People where panicking, chaos reigned as John stepped aside to make room for the thick wall of bodies that were surging past in a mad dash to get to the higher levels. Something was very wrong; he looked back in to see Molly gazing at him with anxiously wide eyes.

"John tell me right now what's going on." She ordered.

"Molly," he said, dazed. "We need to move, we need to move right now."


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was having issues getting down to Third Class, the mass of panicked people where like in impenetrable wall that he had to force himself through. Pushing and shoving he managed to find himself on the descending stairway. Sweat clung to his brow as he removed the burdening life vest to move about better. A few weeping children were clinging to their mothers as he shuffled past, taking the steps three at a time.

* * *

Mike and John were holding Molly in their arms as another contraction hit her, forcing her to bury her head in the crook of Stamford's neck and cry. Water was filtering through their room and it was up to their knees now. Their corridor was abandoned and John thought back to how he had pondered the whitewashed walls would look like something from a horror movie. He had been correct.

"Where do we go?" Mike asked him as they waded through the water.

The soldier huffed, readjusting his hold on Molly, who was again in pain. "Jesus, just take us somewhere there's no water!" he demanded, short on patience. They started moving quickly up the hallway, John noticed that the floor was tilting; it felt as if they were walking up a low incline. Panic knotted and twisted harder in his stomach.

Overhead, the lights flickered. Molly whimpered, a tear sliding down her cheek. "I'm scared." She whispered.

John looked at her, sorrow for their situation overcoming him momentarily. "No need to be Molly, someone just left their bath running a bit too long." He reassured her with a sad attempt at a smile.

She opened her mouth to say something but another contraction his her. Stamford was apprehensive, gaze flitting up to the other doctor. "They're getting closer, she must be dilating." He said as they finally made it out of the water, finding themselves in the dining hall.

"Set her on a table!" he ordered, the lights faded out, leaving them in complete darkness.

Sherlock swore, he had come in the wrong way, water was rising fast and he turned tail to flee back up the steps. Masses of Third Classers were surging against him. "John!" he shouted, adding his voice to the sea of noise.

The crowd was thinning and the detective guessed he nearing the end of it as he squirmed free. Breaking into a fully fledged run he bolted down the hallway, allowing memory to guide him. The sconces were emitting low light and the ship moaned eerily bouncing the noise off of the hallway. "JOHN!" he shouted as loud as he could, finding a recognizable stairwell and bounding down it

The ship was tilting and water had accumulated on one end of the hallway, Sherlock's heart caught in his throat as he saw John's room was well underwater. "JOHN!" he bellowed again, going the other way, hoping to find him along the way.

* * *

John's head snapped up as he worked over Molly, hearing his name reverberating in the hallway. He looked to Mike, who frowned before shrugging. The pregnant woman had tears flowing freely down her face, shaking her head from side to side. "I'm not ready, I can't do this." She whined.

The army doctor opened his mouth to speak when a new, but familiar voice spoke up. "John!" all head turned to see a haggard looking Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorway to the dining hall, chest heaving. John's heart leapt, mouth hanging open. The Holmes stepped forward, sweat plastered to his forehead, he looked completely dry. "You've all got to get out of here!" he gasped. "The ship is sinking! There are lifeboats above on the deck! Hurry!"

Stamford motioned to Molly, who was clenching her jaw. "We can't haul her up all those stairs! She's in labor for Christ's sakes!" Mike exclaimed.

John looked to Sherlock, whose eyes hadn't left his face. "Sherlock and I will go get someone to help, okay?" he told his friend, who nodded slowly. "Yes, we'll go find help and then we'll bring you on up alright Molly?"

The woman said nothing, her face red from her effort not to scream. The Holmes was already moving towards the doors. "This way!" he called, turning the corner immediately, John followed, but stopped when he saw the wall of water on the other end of the tilted hallway. Sherlock grabbed his hand and twisted his fingers inside the doctors. "Come on, stopping to stare at the sights won't save anyone!" he persisted.

Watson ran with him, not letting go of his hand as they fled up the stairs. "I'm sorry!" he huffed, trying to keep up. "I'm sorry for what I said to you."

"You're forgiven, completely and utterly forgiven." The detective said. The ship lurched and both collided painfully with the wall, forcing them to stop.

John looked into the other man's eyes and saw determination. "I want to stay with you." He blurted.

Sherlock gazed back steadily before crushing the doctor into a fleeting kiss, water was lapping at their shoes, reminding them of the ticking clock. "I don't want to leave you." He replied, smiling faintly. "Now come with me."

"Did you come back for me?" he asked as they navigated the hallways with slow precision.

"No I decided to stroll along Third Class for the hell of it." Sherlock retorted. "Of course I came back for you! Did you not listen when I boldly said I wanted you and only you?"

John reached for the detective's hand as they heard shouting and screaming up ahead. Moving faster they halted to find a mob of people flooding the stairwell. Third Class and Second Class all pushed forward, trying to get ahead of one another. The voices all rose in unison, yelling about their god given rights to survive.

Attendants were trying to push them back and several burly men were trying to remove them from the people's way. A gunshot rang out from everywhere and everyone ducked, screaming as a child fell to the floor dead.

"You killed her!" someone shrieked, and then the top erupted in fighting. Sherlock squeezed John's hand, looking at him. A man came banging past, trying to take the space the doctor was occupying by force.

"Move over!" he demanded, an insane look in his eyes.

"I can't!" John replied, struggling to fit him in.

The noise died as suddenly as it began, Titanic heaved and John heard a loud crack before turning to see a wall of water rushing towards them. Sherlock pulled him to his chest and looked down to meet his eyes. "Hold your breath and push off the floor!" he instructed urgently.

No one could have prepared him for how cold it was. It felt like a million little knives were poking him everywhere, he gasped and then realized there was no air to inhale as water began filling his lungs. The detective clamped a hand over his nose and mouth before shoving off hard against the floor and they broke the surface, heads brushing the ceiling.

John wretched into the water and Sherlock held him steady, his eyes unreadable. "We need to get to the decks." He said

"Molly and Mike!" the doctor began to protest but his lover gave him a pointed glare. Then understanding dawned, however painful. They were at least two flights of stairs above his friends, and if water was up here than that meant the lower levels were filled. He shook his head. "No, he helped her up, they're fine." He insisted. "He needs help, we need to go back and help him!" tears were pricking his eyes. "She's in labor Sherlock, she's having a baby right now!"

The detective looked sorrowful as he wrapped his arm under the doctor and began swimming towards the top of the stairs which were in shallower water. "She's not in labor anymore John." He murmured. The soldier buried his head in his hands when they were done dragging themselves out of the freezing water. "There's nothing we can do for them now, but we can still survive!" Sherlock's words reached John through a haze of misery.

"Can you believe this? I survived two full tours around Afghanistan and now I'm going to die on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?" the doctor was in hysterics. "Those damned Afghani assassins couldn't get to me but some cold water will do me in."

Freezing fingers and chilled lips tried to comfort him and John leaned into Sherlock's kisses, closing his eyes and trying not to weep. "We need to keep moving." He whispered to the doctor. "We have each other, and we need to keep going until we're safe on one of those life boats."

John nodded, picking himself up off of the staircase and allowing his lover to lead him up onto the First Class floors. "We'll need to go through the dining room." He added. "The ship's tilted and any other way on that side will be flooded."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. "Yes, yes. Through the dining room then." He stated.

* * *

The china was scattered all over the floor and some pieces broken underfoot as the two men fled through the room. Water was pouring through the other entrance and they halted, the grand staircase was their only way through and it was flooding. It seemed that everyone was already above deck, only a few First Class men were loitering about, splashing in the water, calling for brandy.

Sherlock looked at John, for the first time the thought of him dying snuck into his head. What if he were to die tonight? How would he die? In a riot to reach the last lifeboat or from inhaling water? Would he die alone or with John?

The soldier saw his expression and shook his head. "Not today Mr. Holmes, let's go, quickly." His voice wasn't shaky at all and rang with newfound determination. John had to live, he needed to make it to America, he needed to tell Molly's father that she had gone down with the ship like a brave young woman. He needed to open up his clinic for Mike, and write to his family. He needed to stay with Sherlock, he promised he would.

They fought the heightened incline of the ship and make it to the staircase, hurrying to climb the steps and make it up to the deck. Sherlock tripped and fell, wheezing painfully as he did so. John stopped, crouching to aid him. "My ribs." He complained.

"I'll fix you when we reach the deck, come alone now!" the doctor said urgently, pulling him up to almost collide with a well dressed, yet serious faced man.

Sherlock looked up and seemed to recognize him. "Ah, yes you're Mr. Adler's valet…" he frowned, searching for a name. "Moran! Yes, Mr. Moran please could you help us up to the deck?" he asked, clutching his chest.

The man shook his head slowly. "Miss Adler has said that you will not be joining them above deck." A cruel smile cracked his lips. "She doesn't see what need you could be to her family anymore and what's two more bodies added to Titanic's casualties? Maybe I'll even drop you off in Third Class to make it look like you died in a fight or something."

John's eyes widened and he skittered back, as soon as he saw Moran reaching inside his jacket. "Sherlock run!" he shouted.

The first bullet whizzed right by the detective's ear.


	10. Chapter 10

Another gunshot cracked through the air as John hit the floor, scrambling to find shelter. Involuntary memories came flooding back as he hid behind the banister. Moran, whatever his first name was, was grinning like a Cheshire cat as he walked down the steps; Sherlock was on the opposite side, his eyes wide.

"It would much be quicker if you two revealed yourselves. No one is going to come to your rescue, they're much to concerned with themselves." He called out into the foyer, and it was true. Several people had come across the scene and they merely put their head down and tried to pass them as fast as possible. No one had time to be a hero when they were too busy surviving.

John's breathe was ragged as Moran moved not towards him, but to the detective. The doctor closed his eyes, gulping down the steady stream of horrific memories. Guns did bad things to his psyche, and the one clutched in his enemy's hand that was currently being pointed at Sherlock's head did nothing to soothe him. He looked at the Holmes, who appeared to hold all the vitality of a petrified rabbit, staring down the barrel and he made a decision.

* * *

"You've caused Miss Adler much grief." The valet said calmly. Sherlock was beginning to suspect that maybe he wasn't just a household manager; he was too well versed in firearms and how to use them. "For that you will have to suffer." The gun lowered, down to his stomach. "I'll let you bleed while the water rises."

A piece of porcelain flew through the air and struck the man in the back of the head. Moran whipped around, firing a shot off at the floor in the process. John stood there, in his soaked shirt and trousers, another bit of broken saucer in his hand. "I didn't come all this way for you to shoot him." The doctor said, raising his chin.

The valet frowned. "Doctor Watson, I have to quarrel with you, but if you interfere I shall have to kill you as well." John stepped forward and pitched the little plate as hard as he could; it broke on Moran's face, causing his nose to bleed.

"Don't you lay a finger on him!" he reaffirmed. Moran wiped his face off, which was bleeding quite liberally now and he pointed his gun at the soldier and fired. Sherlock cried out, seeing the attendant's body tense moments before and sweeping his legs out from under him. The bullet missed its mark and found another.

The lights went out just as another signal flare shot into the sky; John watched the scene bathed in red. He saw Moran fall, landing quite painfully on the ground on the broken porcelain shard that had been through on him, he watched it impale and he heard the man gurgle. Punctured lungs were never fun, the doctor thought grimly. He saw the man's arm pull the trigger, and he saw it find a home in the one thing hovering above him.

"Sherlock!" he shouted as the taller man keeled over, Moran smiling as he spat some blood out of his mouth.

* * *

Getting shot wasn't nearly as bad as he had thought. It was worse.

Agony, and blood, oh yes, lots and lots of blood. It was already leaking out of his side and he hadn't had three second's time to recover from the general shock. John hadn't even reached him yet. He looked up and saw the soldier run to him, stopping to stomp Moran rather hard in the face not once but three times in rapid succession. The expression on his face wasn't his John, not the one he had woken up with that morning. No, it was the face of an animal that had something valuable to it threatened.

Moran's face resembled a crushed watermelon now; the detective thought he was going to be sick. Cold hands met his, getting wet with his blood. "Sherlock you idiot." John said. "You stupid, stupid man."

"He was going to shoot you John!" the Holmes exclaimed indignantly. "I'm supposed to go to bloody America with you! You can't get shot!" he took a deep breath and winced.

John swatted the man's hands away and inspected it, relief flitting across his features. "No vital organs hit, you'll bleed but we'll get a lifeboat and you'll be alright." He said, taking Sherlock's face in his hands and kissing him deeply. "Don't ever do that again, do you hear me?" he added.

The detective was pleased he wouldn't be dying that evening, well, not from a gunshot wound at least. "No sir," he replied evenly, dipping his head back in to kiss the doctor again.

John smiled, that was until he felt water soak his feet. He whipped around to see the dining room completely filled and spilling out. He looked to Sherlock, offering him his arm. "We've got to get you a boat." He said, hauling the Holmes up. The stairs was slow progress and when they finally pushed out into the freezing air of the top deck they were assaulted with a rather insane sight.

* * *

There were only two lifeboats left, each being mobbed to by everyone. Screams and cries could be heard in all directions and grown men were stealing life vests from children. John's hands fell to his chest and then to Sherlock's, they didn't have any. "Do you know how to swim?" he asked the man.

The detective nodded. "Although I'd rather I not have to use such a skill set tonight." He retorted. Sherlock's eyes then narrowed as he scanned the sea of faces, looking for his brother. Mycroft was probably already one of the boats, amiably chatting about the rising price of gasoline while the entire world went to hell; it seemed like a very Mycroft-type thing to do in his mind at least.

John struggled to push his way through to the lifeboat with an injured Sherlock to support. The one on the other side of the deck was being deployed right now and the doctor rushed to find some way to squeeze two (or at least Sherlock) into it. An officer stopped him, order had abandoned them a long time ago and now a pistol was what told the masses who was in charge.

"Please! My friend's been shot! Do you have space for him on the boat?" the doctor begged, trying to shove Sherlock forward as if for appraisal.

The man hesitated, his pistol hovering midair, glancing behind him he nodded slowly. "Quickly." He commanded and the soldier tried to help him along to the edge of the lifeboat.

Sherlock resisted as much as he could. "I will not go unless you come with me!" he protested. John ignored him.

"It's fine, we'll see each other again, and I'll find a way to get on a boat. Didn't I promise you I'd never leave?" he cupped his lover's face. The Holmes's eyes were wide and he shook his head vigorously.

The attendant broke the silence. "Now or never, they're preparing to lower the boat."

Sherlock frowned and attempted to get out of his seat but John forced him back down. "Please, you promise me something now. That you'll live. That you'll live so I can go get you and we can be together. You promise?" the soldier's voice was husky, grabbing the other man's hand.

The Holmes looked terrified. "No! John!" but the doctor was already stepping aside so they could lower the boat. "JOHN!" he shouted as he sank out of view. The soldier turned his face, tears falling.

* * *

John was gone, again. He was going to die, Sherlock knew that. There were no boats left, he got the last one. The doctor was not on it, and that was not acceptable.

He would be saved with John or not at all.

"Excuse me!" he snapped at another man, putting pressure on his wound as he clambered over the side of the boat, then closing his eyes to jump and catch the ledge. A woman screamed and heads from the top of the deck poked over to see what was going on.

"SHERLOCK!" John's voice was louder than all the others. The detective cried out in pain as he tried to pull himself up and over the ledge. His bullet hole was throbbing and his freezing hands couldn't get a good hold over the smooth wood.

Strong arms grabbed onto the back of his shirt and they were lifting him, Sherlock didn't even fight it. He went limp and then more hands joined in the effort to carry him onto solid ground. Slowly but surely he was dropped onto the deck, coughing while he felt his fingers soak with blood. With blurry vision he raised his head. "John?" he called. "Someone find me John, I got to tell him I love him." He mumbled.

John's heart was in his throat as he clawed his way down to the deck below them. Sherlock had just jumped from a lifeboat onto a ledge where he had hung precariously from until someone had yanked him over. Nearing the location, he shoved his way through to find a burly Scottish man inspecting his lover before looking up to see him. "Are yew John?" he rumbled.

* * *

The doctor nodded rapidly, dropping to his knees besides the detective. "Yes I'm John." He said quickly, looking down at Sherlock. His wound didn't seem any worse than it had been before he had gotten on the lifeboat and he didn't seem to be in any immediate danger.

"John," the Holmes coughed. "John I need to tell you-,"

John slapped him, hard. "You fucking bastard." He hissed. "You promised me you would survive! Now look at us both, stuck on a sinking ship with no lifeboats!"

Sherlock rubbed his cheek, glaring at the man whose lap his head was in. "I promised you nothing of the sort!" he snarled back, sitting up a little woozy.

The doctor stood, offering a hand. "What did you want to tell me then?" he asked.

The detective eyed him. "I'll save it for when I'm feeling better about our relationship."

John sighed, rubbing his eyelids. "You're an idiot. You got shot, then you threw away a chance at life. I hope you know what how much of a tosser you are."

Sherlock laughed once before kissing him. "You called me a tosser the day you saved me." He murmured thoughtfully.

"Because it was true, and its true now." Muttered the soldier.

The detective opened his mouth to say something when the ship gave an even bigger heave, pitching them off balance, forced to grab onto the railing or risk sliding down into the water. People scattered to find a hold on something. John turned to meet Sherlock's eyes, their fear was mutual.

Titanic was finally giving way to the ocean's force.

* * *

Sherlock tried to carry on the best he could but ultimately John came to his aid. The incline was so steep that they needed to hold themselves upright using whatever bolted down object they could find. The detective bit his lip to keep from yelping in pain every few feet. Their sights were set on the back of the ship, the only place not touched by the water.

"The lifeboats will come to get us." John was telling the Holmes, who was barely listening. "Your brother will find us and we'll be okay. Just don't let go of me, alright?" Sherlock made a noise that could've meant yes. It satisfied his lover. "You'll see, everything will be alright… America will be beautiful and we'll rent a nice flat, far away from your family."

His ramblings seemed to give him strength as they pulled themselves up farther along the slippery surface. "You'll open your clinic." Sherlock added.

"Yes, yes, the clinic. You can go to work for the police department solving cases. We're going to be okay." The doctor repeated.

Sherlock needed to rest, his wound had completely drenched the front of his shirt and it was still bleeding. He felt lightheaded but there was no time to stop, every instance he slowed John would urge him with promises of the future and gentle kisses. "I… can't." he gritted his teeth.

The doctor ran his fingers through Sherlock's matted and soggy mop of curls. "Sh, don't say that." He cooed brokenly into his forehead. "Don't ever say that, never. We're going to survive this… You have to stay alive… so you can tell me that thing you were going to tell me."

"If I tell you do I get away scotch-free?" the Holmes asked, leaning his head against John's shoulder. It was cold, more than cold. John was freezing and by the lack of feeling in his own limbs he must not've been much better off. "Because that's an easy one. I just wanted to tell you that I-,"

The soldier put a finger to his lips. "Don't tell me yet; tell me when we're drinking bad American tea in Grand Central Station. When we're lying together in our flat." Sherlock nodded, willing his freezing limbs to work again as they climbed the last few meters to the back of the ship. John grinned at him, his lips were blue. "We did it!" he said happily. "We made it, still alive huh?"

The two men collapsed to breathe, still both with firm holds on the railing. Below them hundreds screamed in the water, drowning or freezing. It was sort of like a lullaby, their wails. Sherlock mused to himself; this was what Death must hear when he would come to collect souls, the melancholy song of the perishing.

Above them the diamond sky twinkled away, John looked at it and thought about how someone else a million miles away was looking at the same sky and they would see the wonder in it and appreciate it before going back inside to their warm beds. To the doctor, they seemed cold and brittle, like his fingers gripping the side of the ship for dear life. They shined and shined, mocking them. Everything above their head was so beautiful and everything below them so horrifying. They were caught in limbo.

Lost at sea.

The two looked at each other and clasped the hands that weren't holding on; at that same moment Titanic began to rise out of the sea with a mighty thunder.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock felt at that moment he would've rather died. It was less effort, and it wouldn't take long with a drop like that. He tightened his hold on John's hand as they moved with speeds previously unknown to the human race.

They climbed over the top of the railing, so they were on the outside as the ship continued to rise. The doctor looked at him, trying to smile but failing. "Sherlock," he said. "Sherlock we're going to make it out of this."

The detective nodded as he watched the people that had been next to them seconds prior (that now found themselves on the wrong side of the ship) fell and broke their bones against the cold remains of the ship. How small and insignificant their lives were, he thought. Was he any better? Would he make a difference or would he just contribute to the casualty statistics if he succumbed tonight? The blood from his wound had crusted against his skin, he reached down to feel it and winced.

John stared down at the hundred feet of empty space between them and the water and thought about Mike and Molly, stuck forever in that dining hall waiting for the help that would never come. He wondered if they knew the moment they heard the water or they tried escaping. Had contractions halted Molly from getting up? Had Stamford tried to carry her?

John Watson put his head against the cold metal and sobbed. He cried for his best friend who had accompanied him on this journey with big plans, he wept for the small yet mighty pregnant woman who had had some terrible luck but was pulling through alright.

He shed tears for himself, stuck in an increasingly bleak situation.

* * *

Sherlock heard John crying and wanted to comfort him but found whatever words he was going to say sucked back into his mouth as the ship began to tremble. Enormous bubbles were coming to the surface as the ship began its final descent into the water.

Panic clouded his thoughts as he looked at his options. He could jump, die now, or he could hold on and die later. Neither options held John in their immediate future and that was not something he was willing to release for the sake of not wanting to deal with cold water.

"This is it." The detective said, shaking. His doctor squeezed his hand, looking at him. "Ready?"

John gulped, looking at the rapidly approaching water. "Ready." He answered. "You need to jump with me or we'll get sucked down with the ship." He added, eyes not wavering from the creeping ocean.

Sherlock nodded once. "Okay."

Twenty feet. "Sherlock?"

"Yes John?" ten feet.

"Thank you." Five feet. They poised to leap. "For everything."

Three feet, it was almost touching their shoes. "No, thank you."

It lapped the railing, they jumped.

* * *

Was it possible for it to be this cold? It hadn't been this cold when he had pulled John up out of it on the stairwell what seemed like years ago. He was sure it was impossible and the water would warm up. Sherlock surfaced, spraying out the sea and coughing while trying to stay afloat.

Titanic was gone, no trace of her except for some debris floating around. People were screaming for the lifeboats, yelling for assistance. Sherlock shivered fiercely, looking around in the pitch black night illuminated only by the uncaring moon. "John?" he voice was hoarse. "JOHN?"

His hand was empty, John Watson was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

John had never really understood how someone could just drown. It was a simple movement; you just kicked your legs and then broke the surface. How could you die when you had natural instincts that would allow you to live?

He now knew how easy it was, he kicked furiously but he wasn't sure which way was up and the water was so, so cold. Sherlock wasn't with him and he felt alone and terrified. The ocean was black as onyx and he couldn't find the air. His lungs were burning, and he tried to swim as fast as he could in whatever direction he imagined was the sky. His vision was going blurry, is this how it would end? In the depths of the ocean.

 _No no no, Sherlock needs me. He's waiting for me_ , he insisted as he flailed his arms and legs in a vain attempt to reach the much needed oxygen. The pain in his chest was now unbearable, worse than his shoulder had gotten shot (quite a feat because John had never known a greater pain than that). He couldn't continue defeat was looming over him; he closed his eyes and opened his mouth, lungs full of water hurt less than lungs with no air.

Long fingers were suddenly grabbing onto his shirt, he let them, didn't have enough energy to fight. The sound of water whooshing in his ears as he was pulled to the surface and then air. He lolled his head back and tried to take in as much as he could; coughing painfully as salt water ejected itself from his body. Gulping the sweet sustenance he turned his head to see Sherlock, checking over him with wide worried eyes.

"Don't ever do that again!" the detective snarled. "You think you had some extra time to go for a leisure swim in the bloody Atlantic Ocean?" his tone was only harsh due to the terror that had gripped him.

John wheezed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck so he could breathe without worrying about sinking again. "I'm sorry, I just thought to myself 'well I'll never get a better chance than now'." He retorted in his raspy voice.

The taller man looked at his doctor, this brilliant man, fighting so valiantly. Surely he hadn't thought of giving up once. He had much more of a right to life than Sherlock ever could. John's eyes met his in the pale moonlight and without thinking he kissed him.

* * *

Mycroft sat in his lifeboat, looking over the spectacle with troubled eyes. His brother hadn't come back, but the Adlers had reassured him that he had most definitely got in time to board a different vessel. The screams were tortured pleas for help and the Holmes turned to the officer in charge of the raft.

"We need to help them." He said, he wasn't sure why exactly, but he could've sworn he had heard a shout that sounded like Sherlock's voice. But that was impossible, he wasn't in the water, he was safely tucked on another lifeboat sulking about the fact that they would  _still_ have to go to America or something equally as disappointing.

The officer didn't listen to him as he gave the order for people to pick up the oars and row farther away, saying that those in the water would overtake the boat and flip it leaving all of them dead. Mycroft deftly picked up the rowing instrument and kept time with the other men to move them farther away.

* * *

Some of the cries were growing quiet; Sherlock's arms weren't working right. He kept trying to tread water but it wasn't working. John's breathing was shallow and his ears were purple.

"John?" he asked, he couldn't manage more than a whisper. No reply. The detective panicked, shoving him off of his shoulder and then relieved as the doctor jerked awake and started swimming himself.

"What was that for?" an indignant yelp responded.

"Don't fall asleep, whatever you do." The Holmes commanded, looking around. "We need to get out of the water." A tabletop was floating a few yards away from them and Sherlock tugged on John. "This way."

Swimming those few yards was maybe the most difficult thing he'd ever done. His muscles screamed and his wound which he had all but forgotten had torn open and was bleeding again. John stroked steady and strong, nudging the detective along helpfully until they reached it.

"I'm cold." Sherlock mumbled, collapsing onto the wood and looking up at the sky.

"Do you ever stop complaining?" John rasped. His hand found the others in the night and they clutched at them with all the strength they could. "We need to keep each other awake, talk to me." He said suddenly.

The detective readjusted himself, his side pained him. "Your nightmares."

"What about them?" John replied into the dark.

"Why? Why do you have them?"

The doctor frowned, turning his head. "How do you know about those?"

"When we were sleeping together, you had one, I could hear you." Sherlock said, his throat hurt and he didn't want to talk anymore. He was tired, and he wanted to sleep.

"I don't know, just do. I keep replaying all those battles in Afghanistan; the discharge officer said its normal."

"When you get on a lifeboat, swear to me you'll never ever have another nightmare. I hated seeing you like that, so distressed." Sherlock murmured.

John chuckled, wincing as he did so. "I can't just turn it on and off-,"

"Swear to me." The detective insisted.

The doctor's smile cut off and he nodded solemnly. "Alright, I swear."

This seemed to satisfy the other man and they were quiet for a moment. The other people were all but silent, only some lapping water and the occasional shriek were heard. Sherlock looked at the soldier. "Tell me about our flat. The one we're going to buy in America, what does it look like?"

John took a deep breath. "It's going to be small, but cozy, not cramped. We'll have an enormous bookcase for you to fill up and I'll get a typewriter."

"A typewriter?"

"Yes, I've always wanted to be a writer… maybe after this fiasco I'll actually have something to write about." The doctor replied dully. "Do you like gardens?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged the best he could. "I suppose." He was now aware that he couldn't feel anything past his knees.

"Good," John responded after a few moments. "Because we'll have a garden on our balcony and we'll grow roses or something. Maybe vegetables and you can do experiments on them."

"Hm…" Sherlock hummed.

* * *

Mycroft knew that they were dead. That's why it was quiet. They couldn't have survived for long in the freezing water. He turned to the officer. "Go back!" he ordered in his most commanding tone. "Go back and check for the living."Other men piped up, their eyes shifting back to where the ship had been.

The officer turned to them, his face stony. "It's of no use, they're in a better place now." He stated.

The Holmes stood up, the boat swayed a little. "Go back! Tether two lifeboats if need be, but do you want the lives of children, women, and men that could've been spared on your conscience?" his tone was so sharp it cut the night and the man winced.

* * *

It wasn't cold anymore; Sherlock supposed that was a bad thing, which meant he was probably dying or something. Dying was boring, so slow and guaranteed he didn't like that; there was no way to outsmart it.

" _Round and round the garden like a teddy bear…_ " he said into the still blackness. He remembered that little nursery rhyme; his mother had used to sing it to him when he was younger. He had hated going to bed by himself and so she had given him warm milk and sung that silly little song and he had always drifted right off. Sherlock didn't remember much about his childhood but that memory; it had a special place in his mind. He should tell John. "John listen to this." He said huskily, beginning the song again.

John didn't answer and the detective chuckled. "Sorry, my singing voice is a little rusty at the moment." Still the doctor said nothing. Something was wrong. Sherlock tried to sit up and failed, instead he painfully turned his body to look at the man besides him. "John?" he asked.

John's chest was rising and falling still but his eyes were closed. Dread burned the detective's mind as he shook him once, twice, three times. "John!" he yelled as loud as he could, it echoed amongst the dead. "John wake up." The doctor was sleeping, it wouldn't be long.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to cry but his tears were freezing against his cheeks. "No," he rasped. "No, no no. John wake up, John come on the boats are just around the corner. John we've got to rent a flat together!" he lay there, trying to persuade the man to wake.

* * *

Mycroft watched the moon sink in the sky as the officer on his lifeboat ordered two others to rope together and go search for survivors. They obeyed and soon were off rowing towards the site.

The older Holmes watched with cold eyes as they turned flashlights on and began calling. "Helloooooo? Is anyone out there? Caaaaaan yoooou hear meeeee?" the other officer's voice bounced off the emptiness. They moved farther and farther through the mass of bodies and Mycroft closed his eyes.

There was nothing to worry about, Sherlock was safe.

* * *

The doctor's breath was more shallow that before. Time was running out. "John remember I have to tell you something!" he whispered. "I have to say those words when we're in New York." he was begging now.

"Hellooooooo?" a voice like an angel reached them across the water. Sherlock's head lifted, he smiled.

"John there's our rescue boat! They're coming for us, just hold on." He said to the other man, trying to extract his hand and raise it into the air to wave. "Here!" he tried to call out but it came out like a squeak.

He tried again. "Over here!" it was louder. The flashlight swept closer to them, he turned to grin at John. "HERE!" this one sounded closer to a shout. The light landed on him and they moved closer. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and dropped his hand, placing it back in the doctor's. "We're saved." He murmured.

John's chest wasn't rising and falling anymore. Sherlock nudged him again; his body was colder than before. "John come on, it's time to go." He insisted. The boat was close enough for the oars to stir the tabletop.

"Sir, come aboard." The man with the too bright light said. Sherlock didn't take his eyes off of John's face.

"John let's move, they're here." He was now slapping his face in earnest. The people in the boat were looking on, horror on their faces. The detective was trying to avoid drawing the logical conclusion, which was that John wasn't waking up because John was dead.

"Sir…" the officer tried again, the younger Holmes looked up at him.

"One moment!" he snarled. "I'm not leaving without him."

"We cannot take the dead aboard, we need to save the space for the survivors." The man replied. "We're sorry for your loss."

What loss? What were they talking about, John was alive, John was right there for God's sakes. He felt sturdy hands pull him from the tabletop. "John it's time to go now!" he yelled at the still man. "JOHN!" the hands tucking a blanket around him were burning hot, too warm. He squirmed away from them and rushed to the edge trying to grab the doctor.

There were words exchanged with the officer in charge and with a grim expression he looked at the frenzied face of the poor man they'd just rescued. "Alright, bring the dead on as well." He finally said.

Sherlock watched as they plucked John out of the water and set him down on the bench opposite. He rushed to his side and tried to cradle him as someone set a blanket over his doctor's face. He was crying, more than crying, Sherlock couldn't recall the last time he had sobbed in this manner.

* * *

Mycroft watched the boats make their way back as dawn broke the surface; he scanned the faces for anyone he knew. That's when he saw Sherlock.

Very much alive, but he had never seen someone so dead. A body with several blankets swathed around it was in his arms and his eyes were red as fat tears dribbled down his face. "Sherlock!" he called, trying to get his attention.

The man looked up, and his older brother sat back down as the other Holmes looked back down at the dead in his arms. Mycroft understood, it was Doctor Watson. The boat passed them and Sherlock nuzzled against the covered face and cried.

* * *

Sherlock was rubbing comforting circles into John's limp hand as they waited patiently for a ship to come and get them. Perhaps they would all die from the cold before anyone managed to come along. The detective didn't care anymore, how could he? John wasn't waking up, John was never waking up.

John was with Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper now.

The sun was rising and the warmth fell on his back pleasantly. He thought about all the things he could've done to save the man in his arms. He should've made sure he didn't fall asleep, he should've kept talking. Self-loathing tore at his insides; he peeled the blanket back and looked at John's face.

It was peaceful, for all he knew perhaps the man was pulling a big prank on him and would sit up and say "Just kidding Sherlock." Any second. A hint of a smile played on his lips, like he was trying not to laugh at something he heard that was funny. The detective wondered if he had heard him sing that nursery rhyme but had tried not to say anything for fear of hurting his feelings. It would've been something he would do.

"I'm sorry." He apologized, looking up to watch the sun rise on the Atlantic. He recalled a quote from Oscar Wilde he had read a long time ago… maybe all the way back to university  _They've promised us that dreams come true, but forgot that nightmares are dreams too._  Sherlock Holmes took a shuddering breath and realized that this time yesterday he was waking up next the dead man in his arms. Those words he wanted to say to him, he might as well say them now, turning to his lover he pressed his lips to his forehead. "I love you."

On the horizon, the Carpathia was spotted, coming to retrieve them. They were saved.

* * *

_Three hours Previous:_

John was sleepy; he was listening to Sherlock hum away and thought about how soothing his lover's voice was. He knew what was coming, he was ready.

His heart was slowing down, hypothermia was probably twenty minutes from claiming his body all together but he wasn't scared anymore. It was so peaceful out on the calm sea with Sherlock right beside him. If he was going to die he was glad it was this way. The detective would miss him; he knew that and felt badly. He closed his eyes, breathing as deeply as he could.

"John listen to this." Sherlock said, he tried to smile but it froze on his lips. He couldn't summon the energy to reply. He was being shaken then; the taller man's words were drowned out by the overwhelming exhaustion he was feeling. It was a struggle to breathe; he didn't want to do it anymore.

A louder amplified voice was ringing through the haze of his jumbled mind. Lights illuminated the inside of his eyelids. "John," Sherlock's voice was clearer. "There's our rescue boat!"

 _Ah, at last._ The doctor thought.  _Sherlock's safe, he's saved._

Then he let go. There was a distinct feel of having a second skin pulled from his body and it was painful only for a second. He was back on Titanic, in the Third Class dining room, dancing away without a care in the world. He was in Afghanistan, looking upon the bodies of the dead slaying in combat. He was a child playing in his mother's rose garden. He was in New York with Sherlock, kissing him, twining their hands together.

He was everywhere and nowhere, swimming away in those cold crisp stars forever. Content to watch everything that is and never was. He was a newborn; he was ten, twenty, sixty, and one hundred. Floating in the void.

Lost at sea.


End file.
